King of Hearts
by the lurker
Summary: After performing a private autopsy on a former cardiac patient and finding no evidence of negligence, Quincy finds himself in the crosshairs of the victim's unstable brother.
1. Chapter 1

Quincy, M.E.

"King of Hearts"

The pile of folders on his desk barely showed a dent of progress, and it was well past ten. Asten finished notating in one more chart and transferred it to the out pile before setting his pen down and pulling his glasses from his face. He let out a long sigh of air, loosening his tie, just as the phone on his desk rang. It had to be the fellas again: he was long past due at Danny's for the poker game. Leaning his weary head into his hand he picked up the receiver.

"Dr. Asten," he said more brusquely than he had intended. "Yes, I know I'm three hours late, Quincy... Yes, I know all of you were looking forward to taking my money." He shook his pounding head, rubbing his right temple with his free hand. "Yes, yes I know I said I'd be there, and I'm sorry...look, Quincy...Quincy... QUINCY! I'm sorry, but I'm not going to make it to Danny's tonight, I've just got too much work on my desk, and that's all there is to it." He listened briefly to his senior medical examiner's complaints in regard to his absence and then said, "Tell the fellas I'm sorry, and I'll see you tomorrow morning." He shook his head again. "Yes, I will, I'll leave soon. Good night, Quincy."

Asten hung up the phone and allowed his aching head to fall into his hands. He rubbed his eyes which were irritated from strain, but then put his glasses back on his face, preparing to tackle the next stack of file folders waiting for him. But the discomfort he had felt earlier in his upper esophagus had returned, and Asten groaned slightly, reaching for the bottle of antacids on his desk. He popped several of them into his mouth and pressed his fingers into his breastbone for a minute or so, waiting for the burning sensation to pass. He glanced over at the half-eaten pastrami sandwich still sitting on his desk and realized it might not have been the best choice for dinner.

After a few minutes, he let out a breath of air and picked up his pen, armed to make a larger dent in the piles on his desk before morning. He pulled the top folder from a stack and opened it, quickly scanning through Quincy's report on the Thompson case.

"Oh good grief," he muttered aloud as he read Quincy's conclusion that the woman didn't die from injuries sustained in a car accident, but that she had instead been murdered by hanging.

He could hardly wait to inform Monahan in the morning so he could listen to the man's bellowing on the subject of Quincy and his complications. The mere thought of it gave Asten more heartburn. He reached for the antacid bottle again and popped three more tablets, continuing to read through the pages of Quincy's analysis.

It was going to be a long night.

* * *

"Read 'em and weep, fellas," Quincy said as he fanned out his royal flush.

"Oh for pete's sake," Monahan said, "will you look at that..."

"The King of Hearts lives, gentleman," Danny cooed, "just look at him."

"And I thought he was bluffing," Brill complained.

Sam laughed. "Brill, you know Quincy never bluffs!"

"So Asten's a no-show tonight, huh?" Monahan asked.

"Yeah," Quincy said as he pulled the chips in the center of the table toward himself. "Said he had too much work to do."

"Maybe he just thought he'd lose too much of his money to Quincy tonight!" Sam said, causing all the men to laugh - all except for Quincy.

"Seems to me he's been burnin' the candle pretty hard lately," Monahan commented.

Quincy shrugged. "Nah, he loves it, Monahan. Who else do you know likes to juggle ten phone calls from councilmembers, fill out three reports, and yell at me for being over budget all at the same time?" The men laughed and Quincy continued, "Besides, there's nobody as good at doing it all as Asten. I mean when was the last time you saw the man even break a sweat?"

"The last time you told him where he could stuff his budget cuts!" Sam answered.

"Oh Sam... I did not!"

"You did too, Quince, I heard you!"

Monahan dealt the cards and once again the concentration in the room shifted toward trying to topple Quincy's lucky streak...

* * *

Quincy walked into the lab and headed toward the coffee pot.

"Hey, Quince, where have you been?"

Quincy looked at his watch. "What? It's only 8:30...why do you say that as if I'm late?"

"Asten's been down here three times looking for you already, that's why."

"What does he want?" Quincy asked as he took as sip of coffee.

"Something about the Thompson case."

"I knew it," Quincy growled setting down the mug. "I knew he'd scream about that! If the woman was supposed to have died in a car crash, why were her vertebrae elongated and not snapped? Oh, I'm gonna give him an earful if he challenges me on this..."

Sam watched Quincy storm from the lab, and he blew a low whistle. "It's going to be a bloody morning..."

* * *

As Quincy approached Asten's office, he could hear the agitated voices coming from within.

"Damnit Asten, it's a straight forward car accident, not a homicide," Monahan yelled, "I'm sick and tired of this. I'm up to my ears in cases I can't solve without your office finding more for me."

"Lt. Monahan," Asten returned, "I empathize with your workload, but Quincy is just doing his job. He can't help what he finds when he performs an autopsy."

"Dr. Asten," Councilman Wiley said, "I know that you're just trying to keep the peace, but I'm afraid I'm going to have to side with the police department on this; there simply isn't the manpower to indulge active imaginations."

"Imaginations?" Asten's raised voice carried down the outer hall, "My coroners do not use their imaginations when performing autopsies, Councilman Wiley, and I'll thank you to remember that in your future arguments."

"Look, Asten," Quincy recognized the voice as belonging to Lucy Evers, the president of the board, "I'm sorry that all of this is hitting the fan today, but I want to know why this department is over budget."

"I am not over budget, Mrs. Evers, I assure you, I checked the numbers last night, and we're close, but we're not over." Quincy walked in the side door then, and Asten glared in his direction, "Sit down and take a number, Quincy." He looked back at Evers. "As I said, we're on the line, but not over."

"I'm sorry Dr. Asten, but you're wrong." She pulled a computer printout from her briefcase and set it down on the desk. "As you can see, these are the numbers that were run for me first thing this morning, and you are $121 over your allotment."

Quincy couldn't believe what he was hearing, and sat down in a chair, watching in fascination as Asten attempted to field the battle of the bureaucrats.

"That's not possible," Asten defended, "I checked last night, and we were fine..." He grabbed the printout and began looking at it, but was interrupted by the intercom.

"Dr. Asten," his secretary's voice said, "Deputy Mayor Condon is on the line, he needs you right away regarding the citywide children's health initiative.

Asten pressed a button. "Tell him I'll call him right back, Patti, thanks."

"Asten," Monahan growled, "I don't have all day, can we put this Thompson matter to rest now that Quincy's here?"

"Put it to rest?" Quincy stood, yelling, "The vertebrae in the woman's neck were elongated, Monahan, explain to me how that happened while she was driving her car?"

"Are you tryin' to tell me that she didn't die in that car, Quincy? She wrapped it around a pole at the bottom of Laurel Canyon...I imagine more than just her neck was broken."

"That's just the point, Monahan," Quincy shot back, "her neck wasn't snapped it was stretched, as if she'd been hung."

"Didja find any rope burns on her neck?"

"No, I didn't. But the bottom line is that the bones were stretched, not snapped, as they should have been from a violent front to back motion."

"Asten, would you talk some sense into him?" Monahan said.

Asten looked at his coroner. "Quincy, are you sure that--"

"--Are you questioning my competence, Dr. Asten?" Quincy roared.

"Well, no, I didn't mean to--"

"--I'm sure of what I found, and my autopsy report stands."

"Dr. Asten, are you going to allow this subordinate to speak to you in this manner?" Wiley challenged. "Are you or are you not his superior?"

"Well I--"

"--I am the reporting coroner, Mr. Wiley, Dr. Asten cannot change my findings and he knows it."

The buzzer on the intercom rang again and Asten's secretary said, "Dr. Asten, I'm sorry, but it's the deputy mayor again, and he says it just can't wait. What should I tell him?"

"I'll take it, Patti." Asten pushed the lit button on his phone and picked up the receiver. "Deputy Mayor Condon, how are--" Quincy could hear the man yelling over the phone line, and then Asten said, "I'm very sorry, sir, I was working on the verbiage last night, and I thought that I--" Condon's voice once again pounded through the telephone wire, and Asten swallowed hard, looking down at his desk. "Well, yes sir, yes, I quite understand. You have my full apolog--"

But Condon had hung up the phone. Letting out a huge breath of air, Asten quietly hung up the receiver, and immediately the barrage of complaints began all over again.

"Asten," Monahan growled, "I want an answer, now. I'm so far behind that I'm never gonna catch-up."

"Dr. Asten, you simply can't expect the board to allow slip-ups in your accounting that amount to such a large sum of money. Now I realize you've been quite burdened lately, but I simply cannot stand by and see such waste from this department. Either you tighten up this ship, or we'll find a captain who can!"

"Asten," Wiley bellowed, "I'm going to have to advocate for the police department and ask that your coroners not see mountains where there are only molehills. For the good everyone involved, I don't think this is unreasonable."

The intercom buzzer rang again. "Dr. Asten," Patti's voice said, "Ray Pressman's on line two, he wants to know when he can expect an answer regarding departmental participation in the upcoming charity event for breast cancer. What should I tell him?"

And Quincy saw the first beads of sweat break out on Asten's forehead.

He stabbed the button on the intercom even as the people in his office continued to scream at him. "Patti, tell Ray I'm too busy for this right now and to call back later!" He turned to Monahan and Wiley. "You two can take your manpower complaints and stuff them up your collective asses, I can't control Quincy, you know that; I haven't been able to control him at any time during the years that he has been here, why in the hell do you think I can make him change his mind today? If you're looking for me to put a muzzle on him because you don't want to be bothered to launch a murder investigation, you can just forget it! Now get out of my office!" He glared at the president of the board then. "And Mrs. Evers, I don't know how to tell you this, but last night at 11:46 PM, this department was not over budget by $121; the fact that it is this morning I cannot explain, but if you had chosen not to blindside me with the information, I might have been able to find the answer for you without you driving down here to confront me with it. Good day!"

Stunned, Monahan, Evers and Wiley slowly exited the office, leaving Quincy to stare at a man he suddenly wasn't sure he knew. Asten loosened his tie and reached for the bottle of antacids on the desk, shoving a handful of them into his mouth. And then the deputy chief coroner glared at his medical examiner when he realized Quincy was gaping in disbelief at him.

"What? Don't tell me you have something more to say this morning? I think I've already heard quite enough..." Asten rubbed his left bicep which had begun to cramp with tension. "Well?"

Quincy observed Asten for a moment, taking in the man's pale, sweaty face, while trying to reconcile the outburst he had just witnessed from a man who was almost always in control of himself. He pitched his voice softly, "Look, Bob, why don't you sit down for a minute and--"

"--Don't you 'Bob' me. I know when you're just trying to manipulate me, Quincy, and frankly, I'm just not in the mood for it this morning, do you hear? I'm not in the mood for it."

The pain in Asten's left arm caused him to grimace then, and Quincy stepped forward, forcing the man to sit down in his chair. "You don't look well, Asten. Are you all right?"

Embarrassed by the loss of emotional control that Quincy had witnessed, Asten looked down. "Yes, yes, I'm fine." When he felt the hand on his shoulder, he met the blue eyes staring at him in concern. "I'm sorry, Quincy," he muttered softly.

"You don't seem quite yourself this morning..."

Asten took in a large gulp of air, and then let it back out. "I'm just overtired; I worked pretty late last night trying to catch up." He nodded toward the piles on his desk. "But as you can see, I can't seem to get this mess under control."

Quincy gently squeezed the shoulder under his strong hand. "You will," Quincy said smiling, "you always do."

"Yeah, I suppose."

The intercom buzzed, and Asten pressed it, rolling his eyes. "Yes Patti, what is it?"

"Your wife, sir, line one."

"Did she say what it's about?"

"Yes sir. She wants to know what color you want her to paint the kitchen."

Asten shook his head and looked up at Quincy. "Dear God, do I care what color the kitchen is at this moment?"

Quincy laughed. "Red. Tell her to paint it red..."

"Why red?"

"That way when she gets mad at you and throws marinara sauce, it won't show!"

Before Asten could offer a retort, Quincy slipped through the side door; but he made a mental note to check on Asten later - even though he hadn't pressed him, the medical examiner didn't like the stress he'd seen in his friend. He didn't like it at all.


	2. Chapter 2

Wearing his greens, Quincy walked into the lab. "What've we got, Sam?"

"Private autopsy, Quince. Chris Sanderson, 45 years old, cardiac patient at Doctor's Hospital. Died on the table yesterday afternoon."

The two men started walking toward the lab.

"Who was the attending?" Quincy asked.

"Dr. Kittridge."

"He's one of the best thoracic surgeons at Doctor's...I can't believe he'd be guilty of negligence. Who requested the autopsy?"

"Older brother of the decedent, James Sanderson."

Quincy nodded, taking the clipboard from his assistant. "Has it already been paid for?"

Sam looked up at him sharply. "That's an odd question coming from you..."

Quincy smiled. "Yeah, it is, but you didn't see the fireworks display in Asten's office earlier. That Lucy Evers is a battle-ax and a half. She practically tore Asten's head off for being 121 dollars over budget. I just figured we could save him a little grief by making sure the paperwork's taken care of..."

Sam nodded. "It must've been some display if you're watching out for Asten's financial rear-end!" Quincy glared at Fujiyama who quickly added, "Yes, Sanderson's already paid the fee."

"Then let's get busy..."

* * *

Quincy gently inspected the heart muscle and surrounding tissue in Chris Sanderson's chest. "No sign of any slip-ups, Sam. The arterial work is all clean, meticulously done. There are signs of plaque and arthereoschlorosis present, and the right ventricle is completely blocked. And look there, that's what did it," he said as he pointed to a gray patch of tissue on the heart. "This section of the muscle was already dead, and there was no way for Kittridge to have predicted this amount of damage before going in. None of the standard diagnostic tests would have revealed it, and once he was in there, he had no choice but to try and salvage the situation."

"So Sanderson would have died no matter what then?"

"Looks like it to me, Sam. There is no negligence here, just a damaged heart which is consistent with the diagnosis and surgical techniques present."

"Still want me to run a full tox screen and tissue tests?"

"You bet. We have to be thorough, but I'm expecting it to contain no surprises. This wasn't Kittridge's fault." He pulled his gloves off and tossed them into a barrel. "Can you take care of him and get him back into storage?"

"Sure Quince, no problem."

"Thanks."

Quincy walked back into the main lab and over to a table. "Marc? What do you have for me on the Thompson case?"

"Tox screen is clean, but I went ahead with the infrared scan of her neck and shoulder area, and you were right; they were two sets of fingerprints present."

"Clean enough to lift?"

Marc shook his head. "'Fraid not, Quince. But one set of hands was on her shoulders, like this," Marc stood in front of Quincy and set his hands on top of Quincy's shoulders as if he might press down on them. "The other set of hands were like this," Marc stepped behind the doctor and placed his hands around Quincy's neck, at the base of the skull, gently pulling upward to indicate the direction. "I think one person pushed down on her shoulders while the other pulled up on her head."

"She was a small woman, and if it was two strong, tall men, they could elongate her vertebrae until they pulled apart."

"A hanging without the rope."

"Exactly." He pat his assistant's shoulder. "You have all this recorded for me?"

"You bet," Marc answered, handing him a file folder, "Here you go."

"Thanks. I'll be in Asten's office."

"Good luck..."

Quincy left the lab and headed for the third floor.

* * *

The coroner knocked on the side door of Asten's office and opened it to find Asten on the phone.

"Ray...Ray, please understand that I'm not saying 'no' to you, it's just that I can't give you a straight answer right this minute. Ray, please, don't take that as--"

Quincy looked over the state of Asten's desk as the deputy chief coroner continued to argue with the man on the phone, and the medical examiner took in the ever decreasing bottle of Tums sitting open on a stack of papers; the glass of fizzing water that the doctor assumed was filled with rapidly dissolving Alka-Seltzer; a turkey sandwich, untouched; an empty coffee cup; and a still growing number of file folders stacked everywhere. There wasn't one square inch of flat surface on Asten's desk that wasn't covered.

"Ray, I'm sorry, but if you have to have an answer today regarding my department's participation, I'm afraid it's not going to the answer that you want, and--" Quincy could hear the man screaming through the phone. "That's not true, Ray, you and I _are_ good friends, and I'm not doing this to be--"

The sound of the dial tone as Asten held the receiver away from his ear was Ray Pressman's final response. Sighing, the man gently set the phone back into its cradle and looked up at Quincy.

"Yes, Quincy, what is it now?"

The coroner frowned slightly at the dismissive tone, but decided to ignore it for the moment. "I have the results from the tox screen, tissue samples and infrared fingerprintings from the Thompson case."

The phone on Asten's desk began to ring, but he ignored it. "Again with the Thompson case?"

"Dr. Asten, I can't help that Monahan would rather this be a straight forward car accident. The facts point to the reality that it is a murder."

Quincy noticed that the lights on Asten's phone were blinking brightly as it continued to ring, and he briefly wondered why Patti wasn't fielding them.

"Murder..." Asten echoed, plopping down into his desk chair, defeated. "And you're sure of this because...?"

"Because the infrared fingerprinting showed two sets of hands on the body. One set is on her shoulders, and the other around her neck, at the base of the skull."

"Maybe she was being fitted for an Elizabethan collar--"

"--Dr. Asten, this isn't funny. A woman was murdered, and she deserves for the guilty parties to be brought to justice." He stared hard into the brown eyes looking out at him from within dark, sunken circles, and he remembered his concern from earlier in the day. "You're really under the gun today, aren't you?"

Asten looked down into the fizzing water. "Yeah, a little."

"I think 'yeah, a lot.'"

The phone continued to incessantly ring, and after they both stared at it, they tried to ignore it.

Asten picked up the glass of Alka-Seltzer and downed it. "The board is pressuring me to make more and more budget cuts, and frankly, I just don't know where else to cut from without laying off people." He looked up at Quincy then. "I really don't want to do that to our staff..."

"What can I do to help?"

"I appreciate that, Quincy, I really do, but there isn't anything for you to do. This is my dragon to slay."

The phone continued to ring off the hook, and finally Quincy couldn't take it anymore.

"Forgive me sir, but why in the hell isn't Patti answering these phone lines for you?"

The coroner started for the main door, but Asten's voice stopped him. "Quincy...Quincy hold on a second." Asten stood and began to pace. "Patti's not out there right now."

"She take a late lunch?"

"No, no she didn't." Asten squeezed the tightening muscle in his arm. "I had to cut her hours back."

"You what?"

"I didn't have a choice, Quincy. I can't ask anyone else in this department to absorb the budget cuts if I'm not willing to do it first."

Quincy's anger was plain in his timbre, "And how is Patti supposed to pay her bills?"

Asten's own fury eked out as he yelled, "It's better than being laid off, which is what the board wanted me to--"

Asten stopped himself, but he had said too much already. He turned away from Quincy, pressing his hand into his chest against the heartburn that had become insistent.

Quincy's voice softened, "I'm sorry, I've been so busy with my own work, I failed to notice how much stress you've had to absorb lately. How does Mrs. Evers expect you to do your job if you have no administrative support?"

"I don't think she really cares, Quincy. As long as I meet the budget standards, she figures she's done her job."

"What about Patti?"

Asten turned back around and poured a handful of Tums from the bottle, shoving them into his mouth. "Don't worry, I've called around to several friends, and I think I have enough part-time work for her that she can make up for the income lost here."

Quincy pointed at the bottle of Tums and said, "How many of those things have you eaten today?"

"I haven't been counting," Asten answered bitterly.

"Look, I'll take care of the Thompson thing with Monahan, don't give it another thought, okay?"

"Thanks, Quincy." Asten rubbed a hand over his forehead. "Have you finished the Sanderson autopsy?"

"Yes I did as a matter of fact. I'm still waiting for the tox and tissue analysis, but the prelim shows no sign of negligence at all."

"Okay, let me know when you get the final, and I'll call Mr. Sanderson and let him know."

"No Bob, I'll take care of it. I think you've got your hands more than full."

"Are you sure you don't mind?"

"Not at all," Quincy said as he pat Asten's arm. He headed for the door and added, "And slow down on the antacids, will ya? You're gonna give yourself an ulcer!"

"Uh-huh..."

The door closed behind Quincy and Asten looked down at the blinking lights on his phone. He poured another handful of Tums, swallowed them and shook his head.

"Oh good grief..."

* * *

Quincy handed Monahan the file folder. "The final on the Thompson case."

Monahan looked up at Quincy from behind his desk. "_Case?_ Oh, the use of the word tells me I don't wanna look in here. Quincy, didn't you hear us this morning? It's a car accident, not a homicide!"

"I'm sorry, lieutenant, but you're wrong. Read the pages with the infrared results, and you'll see that you're looking for two men, both fairly tall with strong hands."

Monahan glared at the coroner. "Have you flipped your lid?"

"No I haven't flipped my lid. We have the outlines of their hands and several fingerprints that showed up during the infrared screens on the body."

"Did you lift the prints?"

"It was too late to lift them."

"Oh, of course it was!" Monahan howled. "You can't come in here with this and expect me to--"

"--To what? Do your job?"

Monahan stood in anger then. "That's over the line, Quincy. I work damned hard fifteen to eighteen hours a day most of the time, and for damned little pay. You come in here with some cockamamie infrared doo-hickey and I'm supposed to find a motive, opportunity and suspects just like that!"

Quincy blew out the air he had been holding. "You're right, I'm sorry."

"What's gotten into you guys over at the morgue? First Asten, now you."

Quincy shook his head. "The board's really riding him, Monahan, and it's getting to him. I think he's been taking hits from every side lately, and although he hasn't really complained, he's barely been keeping his head above water. He had to cut his secretary's hours back, and he's afraid he's going to have to lay off some people in the lab. I think he's at the end of his rope in terms of maintaining an even keel."

Monahan sighed, guilt pushing its way into his chest. "Is there anything we can do to throw him a life preserver?"

"At this point I think he needs an entire raft, Monahan..." Quincy smiled at him. "But thanks for the thought. I offered to help him earlier, but you know Asten..."

"Yeah. Too proud to admit he can't handle something."

"No, I don't think it's pride. Bob just doesn't know how to accept help."

"Not even from his closest friends?"

"No, not even from us. But I think maybe it's about time we changed that..."

* * *

Quincy looked into the eyes of the men and women who had gathered in the main lab at his request, hoping he understood them as well as he thought he did.

"As you all know, our department has faced some stringent budget cuts in recent months, and we have all had to tighten our collective belts in response. But one man has been on the front line, shouldering most of the burden from these cuts, shielding those of us who work in the lab and out in the field from the worst of what the board has been pressuring him to do. And, in an effort to prevent layoffs in this room, Dr. Asten has cut his own administrative support, and has been trying to handle the extra workload himself; but the toll that the added strain has taken on him is becoming apparent."

"Is that when he's cracking the whip on us to produce results faster, or yelling at us to reuse coffee grounds?" An assistant asked sarcastically.

The laughter around the room was met with a reserved smile from Quincy as he continued.

"Okay, it's true that all of us make jokes at his expense from time to time, but I think I know this staff well enough to say that given the extraordinary circumstances, there's not one among you who wouldn't mind helping him out a little bit during this budgetary crisis."

"Do you have something specific in mind, Dr. Quincy?" A young technician asked.

"Yes, I do. If each of us would be willing to give up one of our two ten-minute coffee breaks at different intervals throughout the day, and use that ten minutes to either field Asten's phone calls, help out with some of the paperwork, or if you're an M.D., help him assess the autopsy files and sign them out, we could really help alleviate some of the burden he's had to take on, and at minimal effort from any one person."

But instead of enthusiastic agreement, Quincy was met with groaning and complaints; and he felt his face flush with anger. But knowing he needed to unify them to get them to agree, he squelched his disappointment and played devil's advocate from within the ranks.

"Hey! What's the matter with all of you? I know Asten can sometimes grate on everybody's nerves, but he's really not such a bad guy when you get to know him, and he needs our help right now. Think of it as giving to charity if you must, but it won't kill us to help the guy out..."

"Oh come on, Quincy," Dr. Shimeda said, "if you were the one who needed the help, maybe, but Asten? Forget it!"

The comment was met with more laughter and shared agreement, and Quincy could feel himself catapulting toward fury. But before he had a chance to say another word, Asten appeared in the doorway, his hands pushed deeply into his pockets, and a hush fell over the gathered employees.

"Well...I think we all know where we stand." He looked over the crowd, and most of them couldn't meet his gaze. His eyes landed on Quincy, who wanted nothing more than to crawl into a hole. "I thank you, Dr. Quincy, for the heartfelt plea upon my grating behalf, but I have always managed to handle my own workload, and I don't think such a hard core case as mine needs charity now, do you?" When Quincy didn't answer he said, "I thought not. You know with solid friends like you to back me up, Quincy, I don't think I need the rest of the adversaries that I apparently have in this room." He glared around at the staff. "Get back to work, all of you..."

Asten stalked out, his anger resounding in each echo that his shoes sent off the tile. No one dared to move in the lab, until Sam started in the direction of the door to follow Asten, but Quincy's voice stopped him.

"No Sam, let him go. He's absolutely right, and I'm ashamed. I'm disgusted with myself, and disappointed with each and every one of you."

"Get off of it, Quincy," Shimeda said, "you've been just as bad in making jokes about Asten, and I haven't seen you shying away from arguing with the man when the budget cuts have come your way."

"And that's why I'm ashamed, Roberta. Asten's just been doing his job, and you know, whenever the chips have been down and I really needed him to back me up, he's always been there. Can anyone in this room honestly claim otherwise?" He swallowed down his guilt and continued, "And now the one time we could return the favor, what do we do? We rub his nose in it and tell him he's a charity case that we don't have the time of day for." His voice softened tremendously, "As a unit of coworkers who depend upon each other to get the job done, we had better think through the values and behaviors that we've just demonstrated."

Quincy walked out of the room, and the sound of his shoes hitting the tile filled the hallway; but unlike Asten's, his steps echoed in failure.

* * *

His hands shook from anger, and he felt nauseous, the pain that had been flirting with the bicep in his arm now radiated upward into his shoulder and neck. He upended the bottle of Tums into his hand and shoved them into his mouth just before the soft knock sounded on his door. He ignored it, but the door opened anyway, and Quincy stuck his head into the room.

"May I come in?"

Asten stood nervously and began to shuffle the papers on his desk, trying to cover the deep hurt Quincy could see in his eyes. "Suit yourself, doctor," he said stiffly.

The coroner moved into the room and softly closed the door. "I know I deserve that, Bob, but please just hear--"

"--I'd appreciate it, Dr. Quincy, if you would refer to me as Dr. Asten; it's a more appropriate way for colleagues to address each other in the workplace."

Quincy closed his eyes momentarily and looked down; he knew Asten was hurt, but he hadn't realized how deeply until just then. He stepped forward and gripped the back of a chair with his hands, trying to quell his rising emotions before speaking.

"I want to apologize, Dr. Asten. I didn't mean to upset you, believe me, that was the furthest thing from my mind; I just thought maybe we could pull together as a team and help you."

"It's done, it's over, Dr. Quincy, so just forget about it." Asten's hands were flexing so tightly on the files he was holding that the pages on the edge began to curl. "I accept your apology, but now, if you'll excuse me, I have a lot of work to do."

The coldness of the dismissal hurt, and Quincy had to remind himself that it was his own fault. "Can we...well, I'd like to...Please, I'd like to discuss this further with you, sir, maybe after hours?"

"It isn't necessary, doctor, it's over; I thought I made that clear. And as you might surmise from the piles on my desk, there is no such thing as after hours for me at this point in time. Now, if you don't mind..."

Seeing no other course available, Quincy started for the door, then stopped and turned back. "By the way, I called Mr. Sanderson to give him the results of the autopsy on his brother, and to let him know that he can claim the body at any time. I just thought you should know I took care of it."

"Uh, yes, doctor, thank you. In the future--" Asten grimaced slightly in pain, and Quincy stepped toward him, but the deputy chief coroner held a hand up to stop him. "I know that we agreed this morning that you would handle the call to Mr. Sanderson, and I appreciate that you let me know it was taken care of; however, in the future, since that duty falls under my purview, I will take care of such matters. Understood?"

Quincy's jaw set in anger, and he answered through gritted teeth, "Yes, I understand."

The medical examiner opened the door widely and walked through it, closing it much harder than necessary behind him. Asten took a step toward it, as if he might go after Quincy, but then changed his mind. He had meant what he had said: it was done, it was over, and he would be a professional about it. But the hurt that had welled up within him stung so sharply that Asten felt a tightness building in his chest, and he had to force himself to slow down his ragged breathing.


	3. Chapter 3

James Sanderson continued to pace back and forth like a caged animal in the small confines of the living room in the house he once shared with his brother. It had been more than an hour since the coroner had called to tell him that the autopsy was complete and that there was no evidence of negligence on the part of the doctor or the hospital. He should have just seen it coming; of course the medical examiner would find no fault with Kittridge or Doctor's Hospital, they were all part of the same, rich doctor's club. He stopped his pacing in front of the small picture of him and his brother when they were kids, swinging from a tree, and his eyes stung with tears.

Kittridge. The man hadn't cared about Chris; he'd just been another welfare patient to him. But even worse than Kittridge, was the man who had agreed to cover-up for him: Dr. Quincy of the Los Angeles County Coroner's Office. Sanderson chewed on his lower lip as he considered his alternatives. It was a conspiracy between the hospital and the county, and he momentarily wondered how many others had suffered the same fate as his brother. These men needed to be stopped; he couldn't allow them to continue giving sub-standard care to people just because they weren't rich. Like so many things in the past, it was up to him to set it right for the good of everyone. Sanderson walked over to the large roll-top desk in the corner. He opened the top and then pulled out the small drawer on the left. He picked up the 9mm automatic handgun and stuffed it into the waistband of his pants. He reached into the drawer for the box of ammo, and shoved it in the pocket of his windbreaker. Walking back to the framed picture of him with his brother, he ripped it from the frame and slid the picture into his shirt pocket, and in that small way, Chris would be with him to see their victory.

"Okay, Dr. Quincy of the Los Angeles County Coroner's Office. I hope your life insurance is paid up."

He walked out of his brother's house, slamming the door behind him, neither caring nor expecting to see it again.


	4. Chapter 4

Quincy curled his arm around Sam's neck as the technician fed the tox samples into the spectrometer. The two of them stared at the needle as they waited for the graph analysis.

"You're pretty upset, aren'tcha Quince?" Sam asked quietly.

"At myself, yeah... I really hurt him."

"You know Asten, he'll be over it by tomorrow."

"I don't think so. Not this time, Sam."

"But you were only trying to help."

Quincy sighed heavily. "Some help. I probably caused him to eat the rest of the antacids on his desk."

Sam smiled. "He sure has been swallowing those by the bottle-full lately."

"What do you mean, Sam?"

"Every time I've seen him in the past week or so he's been popping antacids like candy; either that or he's dissolving Alka-Seltzer in a glass and downing it. Maybe you've given him your ulcer, Quince..."

"That's not funny, Sam. There are a lot of other reasons that people take antacids; heartburn, for example."

"So Asten's got heartburn," Sam said as he put another sample into the machine, "he'll be fine once all of this blows over."

But Quincy's investigative mind was too busy reviewing the clues of the past week to answer; at least until Pete's voice interrupted his thoughts.

"Dr. Quincy? There's a fella out here by the name of James Sanderson. Says he's the brother of a guy you autopsied, and that it's important he sees you right now."

"Okay, Pete, let him in, thanks..."

Sanderson walked past the security guard, and entered the main lab. He calmly watched Pete walk down the hall through the glass windows, waiting until he was out of earshot. "Which one of you is Dr. Quincy?" He asked.

"I am, Mr. Sanderson," Quincy said, holding his hand out toward the man in greeting.

But instead of shaking his hand, Sanderson pulled the 9mm from his waistband. "Okay everyone step away from the tables, and walk slowly over here. Move! Now!" Stunned and frightened, the lab techs and doctors walked toward the man holding the weapon. "And you, Dr. Quincy, I want you to kneel down right here in front of me."

Quincy's heart stopped in mid-beat. "Kn-kneel down?"

"Yeah," Sanderson indicated a spot on the floor with the nozzle of the gun. "Right here. Move!"

Quincy knelt down as he felt the sweat trickle down his face. "Mr. Sanderson, maybe we should talk about this--"

"--Shut-up!" Sanderson yelled. Then wide-eyed, he stared at the assistants and technicians. "All of you, get out!" Most of them bolted for the door, but Sam and Marc hesitated. "I said get out!"

"Mr. Sanderson," Sam said nervously, "whatever the problem is, I'm sure that we can--"

"--Sam," Quincy interrupted, "just go. You too, Marc. I appreciate it fellas, but I want you to go while you can." He forced a smile on his face and looked at the younger men. "I'll be all right, won't I, Mr. Sanderson?"

"Yeah, yeah, sure, you'll be fine," Sanderson lied.

"Hear that fellas? Mr. Sanderson says I'll be fine. Now just go on. Both of you..."

Reluctantly the two technicians walked out the door and down the hallway, through the double doors and into a small room of pure pandemonium. Pete was trying to calm down the assistants and the technicians who had preceded Marc and Sam through the doors, but without much luck. Sam grabbed Pete's sleeve, and pulled him aside.

"Have you called the police?"

Pete shook his head. "I called Asten, he's calling Lt. Monahan." Pete looked at Sam with dread in his eyes. "Sam, if I had known the guy was a psycho and wanted to hurt Quincy, I never woulda let him in there, I swear to God..."

"No one's blaming you, Pete," Asten said from the side doorway. "What's the situation in there?"

A hush fell over the room as the very group of technicians, doctors and assistants who were so quick to abandon Asten earlier in the day, now looked upon his presence with relief; if he was in charge, they knew everything was going to be all right.

Pete responded to Asten's question. "A man identifying himself as James Sanderson, a relative of a guy Dr. Quincy did an autopsy on, said he needed to speak with the doc. We get several bereaved relatives showing up at the morgue every day, I just thought he was one of 'em. I didn't know this guy was armed, Dr. Asten. I didn't know."

Asten put a calming hand on Pete's shoulder. "There's no way you could have known, Pete, now try and calm down. Did you happen to notice what kind of weapon he was carrying?"

"I did, Dr. Asten," Sam said, "it's a 9mm handgun."

"Automatic I presume?"

"I didn't happen to notice that, sir."

"I did," Marc added, "and it is."

Asten nodded gravely. "Okay," he sighed deeply, "Any idea what it is he wants with Quincy?"

Sam swallowed hard. "He made Quincy kneel down on the floor in front of him, Dr. Asten, execution style. I don't think there's any question what it is that he wants..."

Asten visibly shuddered at the information, but forced his voice to remain even. "I've called Monahan, he'll be here in a few minutes with a negotiator and a SWAT team. Sam, Marc, I want you two along with Pete to meet him and fill him in on everything that you know about the Sanderson case; the exact position of Quincy and Sanderson in the room; and anything else that you think might be important."

As he started for the double doors, Sam said, "Dr. Asten, where are you going?"

"I can't take a chance that this lunatic will shoot him, Sam; I just can't live with that. From what you've told me, Sanderson isn't planning on making small talk. I'm going to try and distract him until Monahan arrives with the calvary."

"But Dr. Asten, if you go in there--"

"--Yes, I'm aware of the risks." He opened the door, then stopped and looked down. "If something goes wrong, Sam," Asten said softly, "can you please tell my wife I'm sorry, and that I...well, tell her that I love her."

Without waiting for an answer, Asten walked through the double doors and down the hallway, leaving Sam, Marc and Pete staring in his wake.


	5. Chapter 5

As he approached the glass windows of the main lab, the darkness within caused Asten's heart to falter; but then his eyes adjusted to the blackness and he saw them: a man facing the door, his arms extended out, the 9mm handgun snugly gripped between his two hands, and Quincy, on his knees in front of the man, the handgun pointed right at the back of the coroner's head. For a moment, Asten felt his consciousness flicker, suddenly finding himself light-headed, but shrugging it off, he stepped forward and casually stood in the doorway.

Sanderson shifted the gun upward in line with Asten's midsection. "Who the hell are you?"

"I'm Dr. Asten. This is my lab you've commandeered, Mr. Sanderson, and I was wondering if you'd mind telling me why you've done that, and why you have my senior medical examiner on the floor kneeling in front of a loaded gun."

Quincy opened his eyes which had been shut out of fear, and stared in disbelief at the man in the doorway. "Asten, what do you think you're doing? Get the hell outta here!"

Sanderson shoved the gun barrel into Quincy's skull. "Shut-up, Quincy. You just stay still and don't say a damned word." He looked up at Asten, once again pointing the gun at him. "So you're the man I spoke with on the phone yesterday..."

"That's right."

"You're the one in charge."

"That's right. Everything that goes on here is my responsibility, Mr. Sanderson, so if you have a problem with Dr. Quincy's autopsy results, you should take it up with me, not him."

"Asten," Quincy growled through clenched teeth, "shut-up!"

The gun pressed once again into the back of his head. "How 'bout you shut-up, doctor." He looked at Asten. "So you want me to take this up with you, knowing that I'm standing here with a loaded gun. That's interesting..."

"Hardly mysterious, Mr. Sanderson, I'm the Deputy Chief Medical Examiner for the County of Los Angeles; Dr. Quincy is my subordinate. If you have a problem with his work, I'm the one you need to deal with to resolve it, not him."

"No, Dr. Asten," Sanderson pat the gun in his hand, "I think a bullet in Dr. Quincy's head can resolve it."

Asten felt the sweat beading on his forehead, but he forced himself to maintain a calm façade. "I wouldn't do anything rash, Mr. Sanderson."

"Why's that?"

"For starters, there's a SWAT team from the LAPD down the hall, and I don't think they'll react particularly well to hearing a gunshot."

The man cocked the hammer of the gun back, and Quincy slammed his eyes shut, preparing for the inevitable explosion in his head followed by nothing; but instead, he heard Asten's calm voice.

"Mr. Sanderson, you do surprise me. I would have thought that a man so obviously dedicated to his brother would want to have all the facts before acting out some kind of misguided revenge."

"I have all the facts I need. This weasel did the autopsy on my brother and he's covering up for that butcher, Dr. Kittridge."

"What evidence do you have that Dr. Quincy is involved in a cover-up?"

"Evidence? Kittridge and all the doctors like him don't want to have to perform surgery on people like my brother; people who can't pay cash for it. Kittridge didn't want to have to be bothered with a charity case, so he did half a job, and your man Quincy is protecting him by covering it up." Sanderson glared at Asten. "Everyone knows doctors stick together when it comes to covering up mistakes and sub-standard care. Everyone knows that!"

"I see." Asten paused, trying to assess his options in reasoning with an obviously unbalanced man. "Well, Mr. Sanderson," he continued carefully, "Dr. Quincy has worked for me for some time now, and I can assure you that he is quite thorough in his work - to the point of often becoming infuriating in his insistence for justice. If he says there is no negligence involved, you can take that to the bank. He's the best medical examiner I've ever seen, and a painfully honest man in his work."

The phone in the lab suddenly rang, causing Sanderson to push the gun further into Quincy's skull; the coroner began to physically shudder in fear, his arms instinctively wrapping around his midsection. Asten could feel his own nerves slowly shattering, but he let out a sigh of air trying to keep a lid on them.

"Mr. Sanderson? Shall I answer it?" Asten asked calmly.

"Yeah, yeah, answer it; but say the wrong thing, and Dr. Quincy goes down."

Asten gently reached out and pulled the receiver to his ear. "Asten here... yes Monahan, yes, we're okay for the moment. Yes, I think I can manage that." He held the receiver out to Sanderson. "It's Lt. Monahan from the LAPD, he'd like to speak with you for a moment, Mr. Sanderson."

Sanderson snatched the phone from Asten, yelling into the receiver. "Yeah? What?"

Asten cautiously moved over to Quincy, knelt down, and put his arms around the trembling man. "It's okay," he whispered, "it's okay."

Quincy let Asten hold him for a moment. "I thought it was over," he whispered, his voice filled with emotion, "I honestly thought he would pull the trigger."

"I'm not going to let that happen, Quincy," Asten said soflty.

Quincy pushed away from the strong arms holding him, and as if suddenly coming to his senses, he gripped Asten hard by the elbows. "Are you out of your mind coming in here? What were you thinking?"

Asten's dark eyes glistened as they pierced Quincy's blue ones. "I was thinking that I couldn't bear to stand by and do nothing while the life of someone very dear to me was on the line."

"Oh damn you," Quincy muttered, patting Asten's cheek. "For five minutes you have nothing to do, so you come in here to play distract the mad man with the gun?"

"I like to keep busy--"

But Sanderson's agitated voice broke into the moment, yelling, "--You can just forget it, Monahan, I ain't makin' no deals for Quincy. I might bargain for the other guy, but Dr. Quincy stays!" Sanderson slammed the phone down and turned toward the two men. "Get up, both of you." He pointed toward the door leading into the autopsy room. "Where does that go?"

"Autopsy lab," Asten answered.

"One door in and out?"

"In that room, yes."

"Get moving."

Asten pulled Quincy up and the two men walked toward the smaller lab room with Sanderson following close behind.

* * *

Monahan didn't care for Hal Wilson very much. He didn't like him as a negotiator, and he didn't like him as a man. But Hal Wilson was the man the department sent to pull two of his closest friends out of trouble, and the thought of it made Monahan's stomach turn.

"What did you find out, Monahan?" Wilson asked.

"Not much. Quincy and Asten are all right for the moment, but while Sanderson said he might consider negotiating for the release of Asten, Quincy was off the table."

"Were those his exact words?"

"No they weren't his exact words."

"Well what did he say _exactly_, lieutenant?"

"He said that he isn't makin' any deals for Quincy and even though he might bargain for the 'other guy,' Quincy stays."

"Hmmm..."

"Hmmm? What the hell does that mean?"

"It means I need a few minutes to think this through, Monahan. Do you mind?"

Monahan backed off, and began pacing with worry. Sam approached him.

"Are they okay?"

"For now, yeah."

"Dr. Asten shouldn't have gone in there..."

Monahan pursed his lips. "What makes you say that, Sam?"

Fujiyama looked at Monahan with surprise. "Well he's way out of his element, wouldn't you say lieutenant? What does he hope to accomplish? He'll probably just get both of them killed."

Monahan smiled. "You don't know much about Asten's background, do you."

It was a statement, not a question.

"Apparently not, because I don't know what you're getting at."

"Asten's a former Airborne Ranger with the U.S. Army, Sam. He's probably got a better shot at diffusing this situation one way or another than anybody else," Monahan said glaring in Wilson's direction.

"I've known him for five years, and I had no idea..." Sam followed Monahan's gaze and asked, "Who is that guy over there?"

"He's the negotiator, Wilson," Monahan said flatly.

"You don't seem too impressed with him."

"The last time he tried to negotiate some hostages out of a situation, he got 'em all killed instead." Monahan glared again in the direction of Wilson. "No, I ain't one damned bit thrilled with this arrangement. Not one damned bit. If you ask me, Sam, we're a lot better off with Asten taking this guy on..."

* * *

Sanderson sat on the edge of one of the counters in the lab and motioned for the two men to head toward the autopsy slab. "You two get up on the table and don't try anything."

Quincy and Asten sat on the autopsy table and for a long time the only sound in the room was the soft whir of air from the vent. Sensing the tension from his right, Quincy glanced over at Asten and was slightly alarmed at the man's pallor, shallow respiration, and sweat-soaked face.

"Asten? You okay?"

"Yeah, fine." Quincy arched an eyebrow and Asten continued while rubbing his breastbone, "I just have a little heartburn."

"You've had a lot of that lately..." Asten shrugged and the coroner reached a hand over and felt Asten's skin. "Clammy," Quincy announced as he put a palm against Asten's chest. "Respiration's shallow..." He moved his hand up to Asten's cartoid artery, and his concern mounted. "Pulse is rapid and erratic, I don't like this--"

Sanderson jumped down from his perch and cocked his gun in Quincy's face. "That's enough talking and moving around. Sit still or I'll splatter Mr. I'm-in-charge with your brain-matter."

Asten began to say something in response, but found he couldn't fight his body off any longer: the pressure that had been building in his chest for the past several hours finally tightened, and his breath all but disappeared. He began gasping to pull air into his lungs. Quincy wasted no time lying Asten down onto the table, stuffing a folded towel under the man's neck for support.

"Easy buddy, try and take slow, even breaths," Quincy said as he untied the man's tie.

Sanderson shoved the gun into Quincy's side. "What do you think you're doing? I told you to stay still."

"This man is having a heart attack, and if you don't stay out of my way with that thing, I'll ram it down your throat; if you're going to shoot, then shoot, and if not, get outta my way."

Quincy ripped Asten's shirt open and reached for a pair of scissors on the autopsy tray to cut open his undershirt. "Bob, talk to me..."

"A lot of pressure in my chest, Quincy, pain's mostly on my left side," Asten ground out through clenched teeth.

"No matter how much it hurts, I want you to keep forcing the oxygen into your lungs. If that gets too tough, start coughing, as if you've got the worst case of bronchitis on record. Just don't stop breathing."

Practically tripping over Sanderson who kept him covered with the gun, Quincy opened the closet where they stored the bare minimums of life support. He pulled out the oxygen tank, and a crash cart filled with medications, syringes and IVs. He glanced over at Asten who was turning gray and he yelled at him.

"Damnit Asten, I told you to keep taking deep breaths, and I meant it!"

It hurt like hell, but Asten forced air through his heart and lungs by making himself cough. Quincy opened several small drawers in the cart until he found an ampule with lydocaine. He loaded it into a syringe and injected it painfully into Asten's chest. He shoved two aspirin tablets into the man's mouth, and then set the O2 tank on the table next to his friend, turned it on, tested the air, and slipped the mask over Asten's nose and mouth. He held the mask in place for a minute with his left hand, gently stroking his other over Bob's forehead.

"That's my boy, nice deep breaths," Quincy said softly, "I've got you, and I don't want you to worry."

When he saw Asten's breathing begin to even out slightly, Quincy stood up again and pulled the cart closer to him, yanking out the electrodes which were attached to a portable EKG monitor. He attached the electrodes to Asten's chest and belly and turned the machine on. A pattern filled the small screen, indicating that the man was in a distressed ventricular tachycardia, his pulse rate pounding at 178 bpm; and Quincy felt his nerves jolt slightly at the possibilities that could arise.

Seeing the stricken look on his friend's face, Asten questioned weakly, "Quincy?"

The coroner brushed a soothing thumb over Asten's brow. "It's an AMI, Bob. Lydocaine and Glyceryl Trinitrate drip are indicated, and once we get that started, you'll feel a little relief."

Quincy reached for the meds in the cart, but Sanderson shoved the gun into his back. "Just stop right there, doctor; you've done all you're going to."

Quincy looked at him in shock. "What?"

"Step away from the table."

"He'll die if I don't help him," Quincy yelled.

"Yes, just like my brother did."

"What could you possibly gain from that?"

"Don't you see, Dr. Quincy, this is far better than what I had planned to do. Dr. Asten is as innocent as my brother was and he's obviously very close to you, so making you suffer the way I did is the perfect payback; maybe it will stop you from covering up for doctors like Kittridge. I tell you what, Quincy, step away from the table, and leave Asten in here with me, and I'll let you walk out of here."

"You're out of your mind," Quincy growled, "He needs help, and I'm not going to leave him in here to die."

Asten gripped Quincy's hand. "Go, Quincy, just go, I'll be fine; this isn't that bad."

Quincy shook his head at his friend, and once more turned to set up the IV, but Sanderson shoved the gun into his neck. "Stop or I'll kill you right now.

"You can shoot me if you want, Mr. Sanderson, but I'm not going to stand by and let Asten die."

"You're dumber than I thought, Quincy. Maybe you aren't covering up for Kittridge at all; maybe you're just stupid."

"I don't know how to make you comprehend, Sanderson, but Kittridge didn't give sub-standard care to Chris. The fact is that his heart was too far gone for anyone to save him, and Kittridge couldn't have known that until he opened him up. Letting Asten die, or killing me isn't going to bring Chris back. Don't you understand that?"

Tears welled up in the man's eyes. "No! You're lying to me!"

And Quincy realized then that there could be no reasoning with the man. "You can kill me if you want to, Sanderson, but that's the only way you're going to stop me from helping Asten." Quincy glared at the man. "Now get out of my way."

The two men stared at each other for a long moment, but Sanderson was not prepared to end his stand yet, so he moved to allow Quincy room to work. Asten admonished Quincy as the doctor leaned down to check his friend's vital signs.

"You stubborn mule..." Bob growled from under the oxygen mask.

Quincy winked at him. "Yeah, you're welcome... Now lie still while I take care of you."

Asten's blood pressure was too low, his pulse and respiration too high, and his body temperature almost hypothermic. Quincy folded the stethoscope into his pocket and set up a liter of D5W with two grams of lydocaine and GTN, setting the drip rate at four milligrams per minute with a continuous monitor. As gently as he could he inserted a small needle into Asten's left hand, and attached the IV drip to it. He taped it down and felt the dark brown eyes staring at him.

"What's the matter?" He asked softly, "The needle hurt?"

Asten shook his head. "You damned stubborn mule. Why didn't you just go? There might not be another opportunity."

"Never mind scolding me, Sir Gallahad; you need to try and rest." Asten shivered and Quincy pulled a blanket from one of the cabinet drawers, covering his patient with it. "I want you to close your eyes and relax." But instead, Asten grimaced, gripping his left side. "Pain's radiating out?" Quincy asked.

Asten nodded and the coroner moved to the head of the table, reached under his patient's neck and shoulders and rubbed the muscles on the left side of his upper back, eliciting a painful groan from Asten. Quincy frowned; the continued generation of muscular pain indicated a lack of blood flow: they were far from out of the woods.

"Relax, buddy," Quincy said softly, "I'll be right here."

Asten nodded as his eyelids fluttered closed. Quincy checked the EKG strip, and didn't like the graph contour; Asten's heart was still tachycardic from an interrupted blood supply, and the lydocaine/GTN drip wasn't resolving it. Sanderson noted the deep worry in Quincy's face.

"Gonna lose him anyway, doctor?" Sanderson asked hopefully.

Quincy glared at the man. "Anybody ever tell you that you're crazy?"

The man quickly moved in, pressing the gun to Quincy's head. "Don't say that. Don't you call me crazy. I'm not crazy!"

Quincy could feel Asten's hand grip his in helpless terror, and the coroner realized he needed to back down for the good of his patient. "Okay, you're not crazy," Quincy said shrugging. "It was just a thought..."

"Don't think so much, doctor. It could be hazardous to your health." He slowly backed away from Quincy, and headed toward the door of the room. "If you so much as open this door behind me and peek out, I'll kill you. Got it?"

"Yeah, I got it."

Sanderson peered out the door and then walked into the main lab, closing Quincy and Asten in the autopsy lab alone.

Quincy pulled a stool in between the EKG monitor and the table. He felt the concerned stare of Asten's eyes upon him, and taking his patient's hand in his, he smiled at the man. "If you try to rest, I promise I'll sit here quietly."

Asten shook his head tiredly. "Don't antagonize him."

Seeing the toll his interaction with Sanderson had taken upon his patient, Quincy leaned closer to stroke Asten's forehead. "I won't," he promised softly.

"Best tactic when negotiating with an unstable subject," Asten paused to draw air, "is to stay calm and at least appear like you'll give him what he wants." Asten took another ragged breath. "Act interested in his plight, create camaraderie and then stick him with guilt over what he's done to you."

"That's enough now," Quincy said, running his hand through Asten's dark hair, "I want you to rest. Talking isn't going to help you."

"But it might help you."

"Shhhh, I mean it."

"Quincy?"

"You're still talking..."

"If he presents you with another opportunity to get out, I want you to take it."

"And leave you here with all the fun? No way!"

"I'm not kidding."

"Neither am I."

Quincy stood, and leaned over Asten, to check his pulse, temperature and respiration. When he was finished, he stared into his friend's eyes for a moment, his concern openly displayed.

"You're worried," Asten whispered.

"About you? Yes," Quincy responded. "And which part of stop talking was difficult for you to understand?" Asten smiled slightly and the medical examiner returned it. "Close your eyes, Bob, and I promise you I'll stay calm, create camaraderie with this maniac and see if I can give him the guilts."

"This isn't a game, Quincy."

"I know that." The coroner sat back down on the stool, and lightly rubbed his hand over Asten's arm. "I'm going to get you out of here, Bob, I promise you. Maybe I can use the guilt Sanderson feels over his brother's death to our advantage."

"You're making an assumption about his motive. What if he doesn't feel guilty?"

"Come on, guilt is one of the most common motives around," Quincy smiled mischievously at his friend, "It got you in here to try and save my ass didn't it?"

Asten looked deeply into the bright blue eyes. "I didn't come in here out of guilt, Quincy." The medical examiner frowned slightly and Bob continued wearily, "Love is the strongest motivator of them all; it can make people do the dumbest of things. Don't forget that one..."

The stark meaning of his friend's words was not lost on Quincy, and he felt moisture sting his eyes. "No," the coroner said softly, "I won't forget that one."


	6. Chapter 6

Brill handed Monahan the file folder and the lieutenant quickly scanned it, his face flushing with fear. "Oh Jesus, Mary and Joseph..."

"What is it, lieutenant?" Sam asked.

"It seems this guy James Sanderson is some kinda nutbar. He's been in and out of mental institutions for the past 20 years. His brother Chris was appointed his legal guardian after their mother died."

Sam swallowed hard. "What's the mental illness history?"

Monahan looked into Sam's dark eyes. "File says he's bipolar and has a history of paranoid delusions frequented with violence. Chris Sanderson worked pretty closely with the doctors at Camarillo to get custody of his brother, and that was with the stipulation that Sanderson would be kept on lithium and be evaluated weekly."

"I wonder if he's taken any of his meds since his brother was in the hospital," Brill said.

"Given the situation we're in right now, Brill," Monahan said tightly, "I doubt it. The worst part of this is that the guy is supposedly brilliant with an IQ well above 160."

"Great," Brill said, "so now we're dealing with a smart lunatic."

"Yeah, that's about the size of it," Monahan agreed. He looked toward Wilson. "This is going to make negotiating with this guy even tougher than we anticipated. I'd better get this file to Wilson."

Monahan walked over to the negotiator and handed him the file. Sam turned to Brill.

"Have you ever seen Monahan this scared?"

Brill's lips pursed together. "No Sam, no I haven't."

Fujiyama plunged his hands deeply into his pants pockets and walked toward the coffee pot; he didn't really want a cup, but it was something to do other than let his mind run away with worry over Quincy and Asten.

* * *

Sanderson cradled the gun to himself as he paced near the door of the main lab. There was so much noise. He hated it when they yelled at him, all at the same time; he couldn't hear any one thing anyone was saying. It was like the finger painting he'd rendered when he was six and all the different colors that he'd put on his fingertips had been wildly streaked across the construction paper. His mother had dubbed it "the worm fight" because you couldn't see where one stroke finished and the next began.

And now he had a worm fight in his head. If he could just focus on one voice and hear what it was saying. Just one. But the cacophony of sound continued in his head, and he began to rock in place by the desk just inside the main lab door. Just one voice. He needed to hear just one voice. Then he would know what they wanted him to do to put an end to all the conspiracies...

* * *

Wilson finished reviewing the file folder on Sanderson and met the light blue eyes he could feel upon him. "What?"

"How're you gonna handle this wacko?" Monahan asked, agitation dripping from his tone.

"The way I handle all wackos, lieutenant, the way the book says to handle wackos." Wilson glanced at the SWAT commander, Captain Herbst, and said, "Any thoughts, captain?"

"Well, after examining the blueprints, I'm not thrilled with the possibilities. This guy is sitting on chemicals and other flammables that could be made into a bomb. As far as I'm concerned the danger isn't just to the two men inside, but has the potential to impact a radius throughout downtown LA. I think we should start by evacuating everything within a mile, and then see if we can't get men into a firing position through the ventilation ducts."

"Those ventilation ducts are made of aluminum," Monahan growled, "Sanderson'll hear your boys comin' a mile away."

"All due respect, Monahan," Herbst countered, "but my men are well trained and can crawl through such areas while making a minimum of noise."

"Minimum of noise," Monahan echoed, "that's terrific. And if this lunatic happens to hear you, Quincy and Asten'll be toast."

"Lt. Monahan," Wilson interjected, "I understand that these two men are good friends of yours, and for that reason, you're emotionally overwrought; I think you should remove yourself from any discussion of tactics or negotiations."

"Oh you'd like that wouldn't you, Wilson...but I haven't forgotten the people at the 7-11 a few years ago. I don't wanna see Quincy and Asten wind up as part of your acceptable collateral loss count."

"Frank," the voice from behind warned, "stand down."

Monahan turned to see Stan Donovan approaching. "Forget it, Stan, I ain't lettin' this bozo screw up again. Not this time."

Donovan put a warning hand on Monahan's shoulder. "Settle down, Frank, we're all on the same side here."

Monahan glared at Wilson. "If only that were true. Some of us are more interested in headlines than in saving lives."

Monahan stalked off before anyone could respond.

"He's pretty upset right now," Donovan offered, "he'll calm down."

"I want him out of here, Donovan," Wilson said, "he's too close to the hostages and is letting his emotions control him. You know as well as I do that we can't have that in this room right now."

"Yeah," Donovan said, "yeah, I know. I'll keep him out of your hair." He looked at Herbst. "What's your assessment, Gary?"

"Given the resources this guy could put together in the lab, we have to look at the big picture, Stan."

And immediately Donovan had an understanding of Monahan's stance. "Oh."

"I'm afraid that Quincy and Asten can't be the main priority. Sanderson's sitting on enough raw material to make a bomb large enough to knock most of downtown on its ass."

"Is this guy some kind of demo expert or something?"

"No," Wilson said, "worse. He's an unstable personality with an IQ high enough to make Einstein look like a sixth-grader."

Donovan let out a long sigh of air and glanced in Monahan's direction. "Okay, I get it. I'll keep Frank out of here, and let you boys do what you have to; but Hal, if there's any way you can save the two guys in there--"

"--I'm not planning to get them killed, Stan."

"I know. Look, these two guys have meant a lot to the department, they've come through for us time and again, and I'd consider it a personal favor if you'd treat them as if they were our own."

"Okay, Stan, I hear you."

Donovan nodded and walked over to Monahan, leaving Wilson and Herbst to formulate a plan.

"Stan, goddamnit, I'm not lettin' that loose cannon make a statistic out of Quincy and Asten."

"Frank, I really need you to calm down." Monahan's intense eyes met Donovan's cool ones, and the lieutenant let out a large breath of air. "Wilson's gonna try to resolve this as a win-win, but we cannot disregard the situation or the big picture. I told him to consider Quincy and Asten like two of our own, but ultimately if we have to sacrifice two to save two-thousand, you know that's a choice we'll have to sanction."

Monahan felt the words sink into him like a white-hot knife, and his eyes began to sting. "Since when do we let numbers decide whether or not hostages live or die, Stan?"

Donovan squeezed Monahan's shoulder. "Since the bad guys threw out all the rules." Donovan gently moved the lieutenant toward the outer door. "Look, Frank, we don't even know if this guy's gonna realize the resources he's sittin' on, but we've got to be prepared for the possibility. You don't wanna see innocent people hurt do you?"

"Of course not. But I don't wanna see Asten and Quincy buy the farm either..."

"Let's take a walk outside, Frank, some fresh air might help you calm down."

Monahan stopped dead and glared at Donovan. "What, did Wilson ask you to get me outta here?"

"I just think you need to clear your head a little, that's all."

"Bullshit."

"Frank--"

"--Damnit Stan, you can't have it both ways. You either support me, or support him."

Donovan put both his hands on Monahan's shoulders. "Hey, take it easy, this is not a mutually exclusive decision. I want to see Quincy and Asten get out of this as much as you do, but we need to make sure that Sanderson is stopped before he has a chance to hurt a large number of people. I understand why you're spooked, I remember what happened the last time you worked with this guy; but that was then, and this is now, and we've gotta trust him."

Monahan nodded. "Okay, okay...I'll be quiet, and I'll stay out of his way, but I ain't leavin' this room while Asten and Quincy are in there."

Donovan rubbed his hands over Monahan's shoulders, nodding. "All right, but don't rattle him, Frank. I mean it."

Monahan watched Donovan walk back toward the table with the blueprints, phone and other assessment materials just as Wilson picked up the receiver and began dialing a number. He felt his jaw clench and his stomach lurch, and Monahan had to turn away.

"Lieutenant?" Brill's soft voice asked, "Are you okay?"

Monahan nodded. "Yeah. But I don't know how long Quincy and Asten will be with Wilson at the helm."

Brill glanced over at the table. "Give him a chance, lieutenant; I know you don't like him, but he is one of the department's top negotiators...besides, I heard the captain tell him to think of Quincy and Asten as two of our own. The guy'll respect that, I know he will."

"You tell me that after you've lost a friend to him."

Monahan started away but Brill grabbed his sleeve. "What are you talkin' about?"

"It was a 7-11 a few years back...Wilson got all the hostages killed because he's bullheaded and more worried about his own publicity than he is about the lives on the line. Two of the hostages were cops. One of 'em was my partner, Brill. I ain't gonna lose anybody else to this hotshot."

Brill pat Monahan's shoulder. "I'm sorry, lieutenant, I didn't know."

"No reason you should have, Brill."

The sergeant watched as his lieutenant walked away from him, moving to stand in a corner, arms crossed over his chest, a wary look on his face. It suddenly struck Brill how emotional a man Francis Xavier Patrick Monahan truly was, and he couldn't help but wonder how far such a man might go to save those he loved.

* * *

Quincy laid his hand over Asten's chest and felt the ragged respiration. He looked at his watch; it had been two hours and forty-two minutes since the onset of myocardial infarction, and the medication should have evened out his breathing. Quincy glanced at the oxygen gauge on the tank, noting that there was another thirty-two minutes of air; he was going to have to ask the madman to get another O2 tank, and he didn't know what he could offer in return. He looked up and his blue eyes collided with the dark brown stare.

"You should be asleep," he softly admonished.

"And you shouldn't be so worried," his patient countered.

Quincy smiled sadly. "I was hoping that the lydocaine/GTN drip would have you softened up by now."

Asten grinned tiredly. "Yeah, me too."

The coroner frowned. "Is the pain still bad?"

"No," Asten lied, "it's not that bad."

Quincy gently inspected Asten's chest, back, neck and shoulders and shook his head. "Fibber. I know you're hurting, buddy, your muscles aren't getting enough blood and oxygen circulating through them--"

"--Which tells us my heart isn't doing its job." Asten studied Quincy for a moment, then added, "You're worried about organ damage."

"As long as you've got a blockage, it's one of my concerns."

"Not to mention that I'm a massive coronary waiting to happen," Asten said sarcastically.

Quincy put his hands on either side of Asten's neck and massaged his fingers gently into the tight tissue behind his head. "Let's take a few chest x-rays and then I'll see if I can't get you a ticket outta here, okay?"

Asten nodded wearily as Quincy moved over to the portable x-ray machine in the corner of the room. Observing the deputy chief coroner's gray pallor, Quincy began to fear that Asten needed emergency bypass surgery. He shook his head trying to force himself to stop thinking about the worst possibilities, but each time he glanced at his friend, he found he couldn't shake his own mounting fear.


	7. Chapter 7

Sanderson walked into the autopsy room to find Quincy staring at a set of x-rays. The coroner started at the sound of the door, but said nothing to the man. His muscles tensed as he felt Sanderson walk up behind him and stand over his shoulder, but still the medical examiner remained silent.

"What do you see, doctor?"

Slowly Quincy turned off the x-ray light and turned to face Sanderson. "I see a left ventricle that has been weakened from aneurysm of the surrounding vessels and arteries, one of which is partially blocked. And I see a heart that isn't able to properly circulate oxygen and blood to the rest of the vital organs because of it."

"And your prognosis?"

Quincy looked sadly at the unconscious man on the table. "If he doesn't have bypass surgery soon, he won't survive." He looked back at Sanderson. "I can't take proper care of him here. Not only don't I have the equipment, I'm not a cardiac surgeon."

Sanderson smiled for the first time since Quincy had met him. "And?"

"Please Mr. Sanderson, let him go. You have me, you don't need him; he'll die if he doesn't get to a hospital."

"What makes you think I care, Dr. Quincy?"

"If you were that cold, Mr. Sanderson, you wouldn't have come here to avenge what you believe was the wrongful death of your brother." Quincy glanced back at Asten and then once again at Sanderson. "Can you honestly stand there and look at him in this condition and say that he doesn't remind you of Chris? Can you?"

Sanderson angrily shoved the gun at Quincy's midsection. "Don't try and use cheap psychology on me, Quincy, I've chatted with some of the finest, and you're not going to be able to manipulate me that way."

Quincy held up his hands in acquiescence. "You're right, and I'm sorry. But Mr. Sanderson, if a hostage dies - no matter what the reason - the police aren't going to be very willing to make any deals with you."

"You still don't understand why we're here, do you?"

Quincy swallowed hard; he didn't understand, all he knew was the reality that was lying on the table. The fear inside him seeped out in his tone, "What I understand, Mr. Sanderson, is that Dr. Asten is going to die needlessly if we don't get him to a hospital."

Sanderson smiled wider. "The possibility of his death makes you very uncomfortable doesn't it?"

"Yes," Quincy muttered.

"It hurts deep inside; so much so that it hurts physically..."

"Yes," Quincy growled.

"As a matter of fact, you'd do just about anything to save him, wouldn't you?"

"Yes," Quincy yelled. "Now tell me what you want, and I'll do it, just release Asten."

"What do you have to offer in exchange for him?"

Even though he had known it would come to this, Quincy didn't have an answer. "I don't have anything to give you but my life..."

"And you'd give that gladly, I know."

"Yes," Quincy said quietly, "Yes I would."

"There is something else..."

"Name it..."

"Don't answer too fast, doctor, you might not like it." Sanderson paused, then said, "I want you to issue a new autopsy report, Dr. Quincy, one that says my brother is dead because of the substandard care given to him by Dr. Kittridge and Doctor's Hospital. And once you've done that, I want you to get Dr. Kittridge here."

And the full weight of the burden fell onto Quincy's shoulders as he visibly slouched under it. "You're asking me to falsify an official autopsy report and then ask a man to come in this room so you can kill him?"

Sanderson shifted his eyes toward Asten, whose breathing had become more labored in the past five minutes as the oxygen tank was running out of air. "I guess you don't want to save Asten as badly as I thought."

Sanderson shrugged and turned to head for the door. And Quincy couldn't bear it.

"Wait..."

Sanderson turned back and waited, but Quincy said nothing more. "Well, doctor?" He prodded.

Quincy looked over at his dear friend and knew he had no choice. "All right. I'll do it. I'll change the report, I'll call Kittridge. Anything if you let him go."

And Quincy knew then that he'd sell his soul to the devil to save one of his closest friends; and unfortunately so did Sanderson.

"Fine. You hand me a new report, get Kittridge in here, and I'll let the paramedics take Asten out of here."

"But changing the report will take time - look at him! Asten can't wait that long."

"Then I suggest you get busy, doctor."

Quincy moved toward him and Sanderson leveled his gun at the coroner's chest. "He needs oxygen, and he needs it now. I'm not changing one word of your brother's report until you call and ask Monahan for some fresh O2 tanks, and some extra medications that I need to stabalize him."

Sanderson shrugged. "I have all the time in the world, Dr. Asten does not. He'll get help when I get what I want."

Quincy stepped forward, into Sanderson's gun nozzle, allowing it to press into his chest. "Then you can pull the trigger now, Sanderson, because I'm not doing a thing for you until Asten is stable. Do you hear me? Not a damned thing!"

Sanderson stared into the determined blue eyes and realized the doctor wasn't bluffing. "All right Quincy, I'll get you some oxygen--"

"--and some additional meds, I'll make a list."

"Fine. But once he's stable, you'll do what I want, doctor, or I'll put a bullet in his head and you won't have to worry about his heart anymore. You get me?"

"Yeah." Quincy picked up a pen and paper from a nearby counter and scribbled a list. He handed it to Sanderson. "This is what I need."

Sanderson took the list and walked over to the phone on the wall, picked up the receiver and dialed the extension Monahan had given him earlier. Quincy moved over to the autopsy table, and removed the oxygen mask from Asten's face since the tank was out of air. He sat down on the stool, leaned in toward his friend and repeatedly brushed a soothing hand over Asten's forehead. Slowly the dark brown eyes flickered open and stared in fear up at Quincy, as each breath became more work for him to draw.

"Don't panic," Quincy whispered, "More O2's on the way, you're gonna be just fine."

Asten could hear Sanderson's voice on the phone. "I want four oxygen tanks, four liters of D5W with 2 grams of Lydocaine and GTN loaded; two bicarbs of epinephrine push; and two full doses of cardiac adrenaline..."

Asten grabbed a hold of the lapel of Quincy's lab coat. "What's he doing?"

"Getting me what I asked for so I can stabalize your condition."

"How did you..." Asten gasped for air, then continued, "talk him into that?"

"That's not important. What matters is that I'll be able to make you comfortable; that and he promised to let you go soon."

Asten frowned as his hand grasped tighter on the fabric of his friend's coat. "What have you done, Quincy?"

"Nothing...I haven't done anything. Really."

"Quincy--"

"--Bob, please, stop talking and just concentrate on breathing, okay?" Exhausted, Asten nodded and Quincy smiled, gently stroking his hand through his friend's dark hair. "That's better. I told you I'd get you out of here, and I will..."

Sanderson held the phone out toward the coroner. "Quincy, talk to Monahan. He doesn't believe that you're all right." Quincy stood and walked over to Sanderson, who shoved the gun into the man's neck. "No monkey business, doctor, I'm listening to every word."

Quincy nodded and held the receiver up. "Monahan?"

"Quincy," Monahan's voice said, "thank God. Are you okay?"

"Yeah, I'm fine, but Asten's not so great."

"What the hell happened?"

"He's had a heart attack--"

"--What? How bad?"

"Bad enough. I need the items on that list fast, Monahan. Asten's having a pretty tough time of it."

"I'll see it gets pushed through pronto. And Quincy, be careful."

"Yeah, I will." Quincy hung up the phone, brushed past Sanderson and sat back down on the stool next to Asten, laying a warm hand once again on the man's head. "Hang in there, buddy, it'll be okay."

Quincy swallowed down the lump in his throat as Asten's eyelids closed, and the only sound in the room that accompanied the blip of the EKG monitor became Bob's labored attempt to breathe.

* * *

"I hope the hell you're satisfied," Monahan growled at Wilson, "instead of trying to negotiate, you've been playing war games, and Asten's heart couldn't take the stress. Congratulations."

Donovan's hand landed squarely on Monahan's shoulder. "Easy, Frank, no one can help the fact that Asten's heart gave out."

"What are all of you waiting for?" Sam asked agitatedly. "Dr. Asten needs the oxygen and the meds that Quincy asked for, why aren't you sending them in there?"

Wilson turned to Fujiyama, snapping, "Because we have to use every opportunity that presents itself to take this guy down."

"What does that mean?" Sam said angrily.

"It means that Wilson and his goon squad's trying to figure out how to bug one of the tanks."

"Frank," Stan warned, "that's enough."

"But every minute that we wait, Dr. Asten's chances of survival are being minimized. Don't you understand that?" Sam cried.

"Mr. Fujiyama," Wilson said calmly, "I understand that you're distraught. Maybe you should take a little walk and get some air."

"I don't want any air!" Sam yelled, "I want to see Dr. Asten get help, now!"

Wilson glared in Donovan's direction. "Don't you have any control over these people?"

Donovan let out a long sigh of air, and gently shepherded Sam and Monahan toward the other side of the room. "Look fellas, I know you're both scared out of your minds for Asten, frankly, so I am, but we have to let Wilson call the shots here." He held a warning finger up in Monahan's face before the Irishman could let him have it. "I know you don't like it, Frank, but that's the way it's gotta be."

"And Dr. Asten is suffering for it. I hate this whole thing," Sam said before he stalked off toward the outside door.

Monahan sighed. "I can count on one hand the times I've heard Sam raise his voice in anger."

Donovan nodded. "I know this is difficult for you, Frank, believe me, I understand it; but you know I'm right. We have to let Wilson and Herbst handle this situation." He looked deeply into the saddened blue eyes. "But between you and me, if I was the one in there who needed help, I'd want you out here fighting for me. I'd consider it my best shot..."

Donovan moved off quickly, leaving Monahan to contemplate the finer points of subtle consent from his superior; but Frank Monahan needed little encouragement in that direction, and Stan Donovan had known it.

* * *

Sam watched nervously as the appointed SWAT officer wheeled the cart full of oxygen and meds out the double doors, and through the hallway via the camera nestled in the man's hat. Wilson, Herbst, Donovan, Monahan, Sam and Brill crowded around the television monitor to watch the delivery unfold. The officer stopped in front of the darkened door of the main lab and waited, finally a voice from within the dark yelled to him.

"Step away from the cart and wait. If you so much as twitch, I'll kill you."

Sanderson moved through the lab and to the door, never allowing his eyes to leave the cop dressed in black fatigues, baseball hat and black bulletproof vest. He pointed his gun at the man.

"Back up another ten feet."

The officer complied and waited while Sanderson checked the equipment and the cart over. When he was satisfied that it was free of ambushes he addressed the cop once again.

"Turn around and walk back slowly."

The cop did as he was asked and walked back through the hallway and the double doors. Wilson was waiting for him.

"Well?"

"Impossible to see anything in the lab, it was pitch black in there. The hostages might be in there, but they might not. Single 9mm automatic, just like the lab assistant said. No sign of wiring or any other explosive device on the assailant."

"How did he look?"

"Nervous, but in control. He won't bluff easily, I don't think, and he checked the equipment in the cart very carefully, although I don't think he caught the bug in the gauge of the one tank."

"And the air vents?"

"Couldn't see any of them within the main lab, it was too dark. I still think it might be one of our best options."

"Okay, Reese, thanks."

The young officer nodded and moved away. Wilson and Herbst stared at each other for a minute.

"My men could get through the vents in about ten minutes."

Wilson nodded. "I want to hear what's going on in there and see if we can pinpoint a location first, then we'll decide on our move..."

Monahan walked over to where Fujiyama was leaning against a table. "How bad-off do you think Asten is?"

Sam shrugged. "Judging from the symptoms he was demonstrating leading up to the attack, the fact that he's hypertensive and the drugs that Quincy requested, I think a full arrest is possible."

"You mean his heart could stop?"

"Yeah, that's what I mean."

Monahan blew air out of his mouth. "Then we've gotta get him outta there and quick."

"Yeah, but how? No offense, Monahan, but you're not exactly in charge."

The Irishman smiled sardonically. "And sometimes bein' in charge hinders gettin' things done..."

Fujiyama watched Monahan head quickly out the doors leading to the lobby and wondered exactly what it was he had in mind; but deep down, Sam knew he was better off not knowing.

* * *

Quincy hoisted a fresh O2 tank off the cart and set it next to the autopsy table, connecting the hose and mask to it, slipping it over his patient's nose and mouth. Asten's breathing eased slightly, and Quincy turned his attention to hooking up a new IV. Asten groaned in discomfort, reaching for his chest.

Quincy took the man's outstretched hand in his. "Easy now, just relax."

"The pressure's getting worse," Asten ground out through clenched teeth.

Frowning, Quincy rubbed a warm hand gently over Asten's breastbone. "I'm sorry, Bob, I know you're miserable. I'll have you out of here soon, I promise."

"All right, Quincy," Sanderson growled, "I got you what you wanted, now you hold up your end of the bargain and get busy on a new report and getting Kittridge in here."

Asten gripped Quincy's hand tightly. "What is he talking about?"

"Nothing for you to worry about. Just close your eyes and try and rest."

"Quincy..."

"Shhh...do what your doctor tells you."

"Let's go, coroner," Sanderson said, "I want the report and the surgeon, now."

"Quincy," Asten whispered, "you're not going to falsify the report on Chris Sanderson...or worse, subject another human being to this..."

The soft blue-gray eyes looked into the tired sea of brown. "I'm going to do whatever it takes to keep you alive."

"No, Quincy, you can't." Asten swallowed hard trying to catch his breath. "I forbid it. You absolutely may not do such a thing."

"I've already agreed to it, Bob, and that's the end of it. Now I want you to calm down and stop stressing your heart."

"You can't let yourself and this department be blackmailed like this--"

"--Listen to me," Quincy hissed, "your life means a lot more to me than an autopsy report, this damned department, or the reputation of a hospital - and God help me, I'm willing to sacrifice a man I don't even know to save you--" He knew from the stunned look in Asten's eyes that he had said too much, but it was too late: his emotions had spoken for him. "Damnit," Quincy whispered, blinking away the moisture that had filled his eyes. "_Damn it._" The coroner closed his eyes for a moment, then looked at his friend._ "_I can't stand by and do nothing any more than you could, don't you see that?"

But hearing the raw truth was more than Asten could stand: he clutched his chest in agony and began gasping violently for air, his eyes bulging wide in terror. As the world started going black, Asten heard the EKG alarm sound and the constant blip of his heartbeat turn to the arrhythmia of a PVC...


	8. Chapter 8

As the EKG flatlined, Quincy flipped into emergency mode. He yanked the blanket off of his patient and pulled the towel from under Asten's neck to lie him flat on the table. "Damn it!" He pounded his fist into his patient's chest and began compressing above his heart, counting. "One-one-thousand, two-one-thousand, three-one-thousand, four-one-thousand, five-one-thousand..." He ripped the mask from Asten's face, pinched his nose closed with one hand and pulled down on his jaw with the other. Quincy leaned over him and blew air into his mouth, then returned to the compressions of his chest.

"What's going on?" Sanderson asked.

"His heart stopped!" Quincy growled.

Trying not to panic, the coroner glanced at the monitor, but as the alarm indicated, Asten was still in a flatline. He continued the compressions and breathing for another minute, but Asten's heart wasn't responding. The coroner pressed a button on the defibrillator charging the juice, grabbed the paddles from the crash cart, squirted gel on them and pressed the left one into Asten's chest and the right one just under his ribcage. Out of habit, Quincy yelled, "Stand clear!" And then pressed the buttons on the paddles, sending 300 joules of electrical current pulsing through Asten's body, causing his frame to shudder slightly against the table.

And still there was a flatline.

"Damn it! Bob, come on! Clear!"

Quincy hit him again with the power and once more Asten's body jolted slightly off the table, but the monotone hum of the EKG continued to sound. Sanderson watched in fascination as the doctor tossed the paddles onto the cart and grabbed the syringe of epinephrine, plunging it deeply into his patient's chest cavity. He glanced back at the monitor, but the flatline continued to spread across it horizontally. Panic was threatening to overtake him emotionally, but out of habit from his years as a surgeon, Quincy maintained the outward calm reflecting his experience. He picked up the syringe loaded with adrenaline next and stabbed Asten in the heart with it, depressing the plunger all the way down. A momentary blip passed through the flatline and it sounded in the room, but then the horizontal line reasserted itself.

"Oh God, please no!" Quincy yelled as he cranked the defibrillator up, grabbed the paddles and sent 400 joules through his friend's body. "Come on Asten!"

And finally the line went into v-fib; but Quincy knew from experience that it would flatline again if he didn't get it to convert. Swallowing hard, and praying that there would be no permanent damage, the coroner hit the man's chest one more time with the paddles, and Asten's heart converted to a normal sinus rhythm. Quincy tossed the paddles back onto the cart, replaced the O2 mask over his friend's nose and mouth and leaned in closely, holding the mask with his right hand, gently stroking his left over Bob's forehead.

Quincy could feel the sweat trickle down his temples as his own heart pounded against his chest. "Please just keep breathing, buddy, just breathe." He pulled the blanket back up, covering Asten with it, all the while brushing his hand soothingly over the man's brow.

Sanderson observed Quincy's tenderness with Asten and it reminded him of how his brother had always taken care of him, and bitterness consumed him. "You really care deeply for him."

Quincy looked up at the man through wet eyes. "Yes I do."

"Then if you want to keep him alive, I suggest you get busy on that report you promised me."

Quincy nodded silently and stood, gently ruffling Asten's dark hair, before moving toward the counter and the drawer with the blank autopsy forms in it. Sitting down on a stool, Quincy pulled a pen from his pocket and started rewriting what he knew to be the truth of Chris Sanderson's death. He glanced occasionally over at Asten, reminding himself why he was doing something that went against everything in which he believed...

* * *

Sam sat down in a chair, stunned by what he had heard through the monitor of the bug on the O2 tank. Monahan walked over to him, and rubbed a hand across the lab assistant's shoulders.

"It's okay, Sam, it sounded like Quincy got things handled in there..."

Fujiyama nodded, but his voice was tense, "Yeah."

The Irishman pulled a chair over, and turning it backwards, he straddled it and sat down facing Fujiyama. "Now you listen to me, Sam, because I've been through a lot of situations like this over the past 25 years. Quincy is first and foremost a doctor; and a damned fine one, so Asten's in good hands. And keep in mind that Asten isn't exactly a fading wallflower. He's a lot tougher than we think of him as being - we're just used to seein' him in three piece suits and shufflin' papers is all."

"I know, but he was in full cardiac arrest in there," Sam's worried voice said, "and there's only minimal life support in that room. And what if he needs surgery? Quincy can't do it; he's not a cardiac surgeon."

"You're gettin' ahead of yourself here, Sam. Asten's heart stopped, but Quincy got it restarted, and right now, he's stable. That's what we need to focus on."

Fujiyama looked into the kind blue eyes and he nodded. "I know you're right. It's just difficult."

"Of course it is, Sam, it's supposed to be." Fujiyama looked sharply at Monahan, not expecting such edgy truth. The cop continued, "It's difficult because those guys in there are our pals, and when you cut right to the heart of it, we love both of 'em like family. But don't you worry, Sam, we're not losin' anybody in our family. Not today." Monahan pat the back of the young man's head as he stood up from the chair. "Now I need you to do somethin' for me." Sam nodded and the Irishman continued, "I want you to keep listening to what's going on in that room, and I want you to keep watching what's going on in this one, and then make sure Brill knows about it - he'll be in and out of here. Can you do that?"

"Yes...but what I am listening and looking for?"

"Anything that might come into play, Sam. Anything that we might need to know or be able to use--" Monahan stopped himself, not wanting to drag the young man into his plan any further.

Fujiyama looked sharply at the lieutenant. "Monahan, what are you up to?"

The Irishman smiled. "Just pray that I'm in heaven for half an hour before the devil knows I'm missing!"

Monahan nodded toward Wilson and winked at Sam before he left the room, leaving Sam to worry about what Monahan was preparing to do...

* * *

Quincy's hand shook as he signed his name to the bottom of the coroner's report. He set his pen down, walked over to Sanderson, and held out the document toward the man.

"Here it is. It says that the mode of death was negligence caused in the malpractice of cardiac surgery. In the descriptions, I wrote out what would have had to have occurred to make that so, and named Kittridge and Doctor's Hospital as the culpable entities." He stared hard into Sanderson's eyes. "I don't know what good it will do you, but now that you have it, I want you to call Monahan and get a paramedic in here to take Asten to a hospital."

But Sanderson wasn't listening to Quincy, instead he was focusing in on the very light sounds of padded knees thumping against aluminum siding, and he glared up toward the air vents in the room. He grabbed the medical examiner, and pulling him into his body like a shield, held his gun at Quincy's temple.

"I know you can hear me, damn you," he yelled toward the vents, "I've got the coroner in front of me like a shield, and if I hear one more thud in the air vents, I'm gonna blow his brains out!"

Standing by the monitor in the small lobby only a corridor away, Wilson blew a huge sigh of air out of his mouth and said, "Shit..."

But on the inside stairwell near the elevators just outside the entrance to the main lab, Monahan could hear Brill's voice through the small device in his ear. "Listen up, Friar Tuck, the lamb's onto the sheriff and his brigade, and he's using Robin Hood as a shield. Little John's pegged the location of Robin and Will as autopsy one, just north of the main lab."

The Irishman whispered into the mic attached to his lapel. "Gotcha, Allan, I'm going to make a recon into the main lab and see the sights. I'll be in touch when I know how we should proceed. Friar Tuck out."

"Be careful," Brill muttered.

* * *

The phone in the autopsy lab rang, and Quincy felt the jolt shudder through Sanderson, which in turn caused the coroner to start slightly. Keeping Quincy close, and gun closer, Sanderson moved the two of them over to the phone on the wall, and he picked it up.

"You'd better get those men out of the vents, Monahan, or the coroner isn't going to make it."

"This isn't Monahan," said the voice on the other end of the phone, "I'm Hal Wilson, and I'm a negotiator. I want to know what it is that you want in exchange for coming out of there peacefully, Mr. Sanderson."

"I want to talk to Monahan, not you."

"I'm afraid Lt. Monahan's been called away on another matter, Mr. Sanderson, so you'll need to deal with me."

"Well that's too bad, cop, because I'm callin' the shots here, not you. I'm sure that you're aware that I have access to enough chemicals in the main lab that I can blow up not only this building but part of downtown Los Angeles, and if you don't get those men out of the vents, and Monahan on the phone, I promise you, this coroner's brains splattered on the wall will be the least of your worries." Sanderson slammed the phone down into the receiver and he felt Quincy tighten against him. "You didn't think I realized the resources available to me, did you?"

"No, I guess I didn't think about it." Quincy took a slow breath, then said, "Mr. Sanderson, I know you think that what you're doing is somehow right, but threatening to endanger even more people isn't going to get you what you want."

"We'll see, Quincy. What I want is actually rather simple, isn't it? Which reminds me, you need to make that phone call to Kittridge..."

"I need the number," Quincy said quietly.

"I'm sure Lt. Monahan can get it for you." Sanderson tensed again as the sounds of the men in the vents began to retreat, but once they were gone, he let go of Quincy, shoving the coroner back toward the autopsy table. "Now what do you suppose Mr. Wilson the negotiator will try next?"

"I'm sure don't know," Quincy answered.

But the medical examiner secretly hoped that whatever it was, it wouldn't happen until he had Asten safely out of the lab.


	9. Chapter 9

Wilson glared at Monahan as he entered the room. "Where the hell have you been?"

Monahan and Brill exchanged a quick glance and then the Irishman answered, "Around."

"Don't get cute; this nut is insisting on speaking to you and only you." Wilson thrust the phone receiver at Monahan. "Find out what he wants. And don't promise him anything unless I okay it. I'll be on the extension, listening, just keep your eyes on me."

Monahan grabbed the extended receiver and waited while Wilson dialed the lab extension.

"Yeah?" Sanderson's voice said after a few rings.

"Mr. Sanderson, this is Lt. Monahan..."

"It's about time, cop. Dr. Quincy needs to speak with Dr. Kittridge from Doctor's Hospital."

"What for?"

"All you need to know is that for your efforts, I'll give you Asten."

"Put Quincy on the line."

"No. You get Kittridge on the phone and transfer him to this extension. You have ten minutes."

"And if I can't locate him in ten minutes?"

"Then I'm afraid that Dr. Asten will be quite dead."

Monahan let out a slow breath of air. "I'll get it done, Sanderson, you don't have to show us you mean business by killing a hostage--"

"--Ten minutes, Monahan, not a moment more."

Sanderson hung up the phone, and Wilson was already conferring with Herbst. "I want your men in position in five minutes. We have a small window of opportunity here. Sanderson will be distracted by the phone call; it may be the only chance we have to rush him and catch him off guard."

"Are you nuts? You rush that man, and those hostages are dead." Monahan said.

"Lt. Monahan, this is not your concern. You've done your job, with our thanks--"

"--No, Wilson, you're not gonna dismiss me out of hand--"

Wilson turned to Donovan. "--Stan, get this man out of here."

Donovan moved toward Monahan, but the Irishman was far from finished. "We're not done, Wilson--"

"--Oh you're as done as a burnt piece of meat, Monahan. Donovan, get him outta here before I have him carted out and charged with interfering with a negotiator in a hostage crisis situation."

"Frank," Donovan said, pulling him toward the door, "Frank! Come on..."

Monahan fought against the captain for a moment, then shook free of him and walked out the door, shooting Brill a sidelong glance. A few minutes later, the sergeant slipped out, with Sam Fujiyama right behind him, neither attracting any attention.

* * *

"What do you mean he's unavailable? This is a police emergency, and I need Kittridge on the phone, now!" Wilson listened as the voice on the other end of the line spoke, and then he growled, "Your being sorry does nothing to help this situation." Wilson slammed the phone down and glared at Herbst. "This guy Kittridge is in the middle of some damned heart transplant and the hospital administrator refuses to pull him out. Says he can't endanger the patient that way..." Wilson began to pace. "I hate these guys...they're all so pompous."

"Maybe they don't have anybody else who can finish the surgery for him," Herbst offered.

"Damn lot of good that does us; we've got a nut down the hall with two hostages and enough chemicals to blow us to kingdom come." He let out a huge sigh as he ran a hand through his hair. "And now I've gotta get this guy on the phone and tell him Kittridge is unavailable."

"How do you think he'll react?"

"About as well as Tony Pro would to Jimmy Hoffa showin' up on his doorstep..."

"We can rush the room and take our chances." He looked hard at Wilson. "Think this guy is ready to blow the building apart?"

Wilson shrugged. "The lab tech tells me he's got potassium chlorate and red phosphorus in there, and with enough of each, he can make quite a show - but the chemicals have to remain apart until the moment he wants them to blow."

"So you're saying we're going to have to gamble that he can't mix them fast enough if we rush him?"

"All he has to do is splash them together, I'm told."

"Seems awfully chancy, Hal."

"You got a better idea?"

"Maybe we should wait him out."

"Maybe. Let's see how he reacts to being told he's not getting his way with Kittridge..."

Wilson picked up the phone and punched in the extension number, and after a few rings, Sanderson answered. "What?"

"Sanderson, this is Wilson. I've spoken with the chief administrator at Doctor's Hospital, and Dr. Kittridge is in surgery and therefore unavailable."

"That's the wrong answer, Wilson; I gave you ten minutes to get this guy on the phone, and if you don't come through, a hostage is gonna pay. You have less than five minutes."

"Don't be a nimrod Sanderson, Kittridge is in the middle of a heart transplant, and he's not going to leave his patient to answer the phone. You're just going to have to wait and--"

"--Shut up, cop! Just shut-up!" Wilson could hear Sanderson's ragged breath through the phone, and it caused him to hold his own. "You're stalling, Wilson; you're stallin' and I ain't buyin'."

Sanderson slammed the phone down in Wilson's ear and he muttered, "Damnit..."

* * *

Quincy leaned against the counter, his arms folded across his chest, watching Sanderson carefully pour and isolate the two chemicals he had pulled from the main lab, and a shudder ran up the doctor's spine. "If those come into even the slightest contact with each other, Mr. Sanderson--"

"--I know what will happen, Dr. Quincy. Don't insult my intelligence."

Quincy held up a slightly defensive hand. "I don't mean to be insulting, Mr. Sanderson. It's just that those two chemicals are extremely volatile when mixed together, and you have enough there to--"

"--blow up this building? Yes, and it's making you terribly nervous."

Quincy sighed, unaware that their conversation was being heard by Wilson and Herbst who were cringing in the small room down the hall. "Mr. Sanderson, please don't endanger any more people; I can't believe that your brother would want that--"

"--You don't know what my brother would want."

Quincy closed his eyes in despair for a moment, then opened them and looked down at the floor. His voice grew soft, almost defeated when he continued, "You have me. You don't need Asten or Kittridge or anyone else; you certainly don't need to blow up a building, and all the people in it to make your point. Surely you're smart enough to make your point with one example, aren't you?"

"Very cleverly played, Dr. Quincy, but not good enough." Sanderson set the two glass containers with the chemicals down on the counter, and carefully pressed lids onto the tops. "All I have to do is throw these to the floor, and the two chemicals will explode on contact." He looked into Quincy's eyes then. "I want Kittridge _and_ you, doctor. I'm in the driver's seat, so I hardly need to compromise. It's all or nothing, you see."

Realizing there was nothing he could say to a madman, Quincy shoved his hands in his pockets and walked over to the stool by the autopsy table, where Asten remained unconscious. He gently checked his patient's vitals, sat on the stool, and laid a warm hand on the man's shoulder.

"How is he?" Sanderson asked.

Quincy looked at him harshly. "What do you care? You're just going to kill him anyway."

"I'm not responsible for his death, Dr. Quincy, you are." Quincy looked at him sharply, and Sanderson continued, "He came in here to save your sorry behind, and now his life is in your hands. Don't blame me if you don't save him."

"I'm not a cardiac surgeon," Quincy growled. "If you had any compassion at all, you'd let the EMTs come in here and take him to a hospital."

"You get me Kittridge, and I'll do just that."

"There's nothing I can do; and still, you're going to let Asten die."

"Not me, doctor, you; and there's something extremely poetic in it...your good friend has a heart attack, and you're powerless to save him. Now you know how it feels to be the other guy."

"You really are crazy, Sanderson, you know that? You're completely off your rocker."

Sanderson moved to stand across the table from Quincy, pointing the gun at his forehead.

"Go ahead," Quincy said, his insides shaking despite his cool façade, "shoot. Put me out of my misery. Save me the pain of seeing Asten suffer, and the guilt of being unable to help him. Go ahead, you'll be doing me a favor."

Sanderson's hand began to shake with emotion, and finally, his eyes flooded with tears for the memory of his brother, he lowered the gun and walked back toward the counter with the two glass containers. Quincy let out a long sigh of air, praying that he wouldn't have to run another play past the man. He doubted that he could make too many more successful gains.

* * *

Dressed in green scrubs, Brill wheeled the covered gurney down the opposite hallway of Wilson's area, toward the main lab. He could feel the sweat dripping down his back, but deep inside, he knew it was the only shot to save Quincy and Asten. Yet it was far from foolproof. As he neared the door, he saw them: Herbst's men crawling down the hall, moving into position, and Brill realized he had to act fast, before they realized he was there.

Practically shoving the gurney into the main lab, Brill called out, "Dr. Quincy? Hello... Dr. Quincy? Where the hell is everyone?" He switched all the lights on in the lab, sending Herbst's men fleeing back toward safe cover. "Hello? Dr. Quincy?" Brill wheeled the gurney into the door of the autopsy lab, and froze halfway inside as he came face to face with Sanderson's 9mm. "Uh...what the hell?"

* * *

Back in the staging area, Wilson slammed his mug of coffee onto the table, causing most of it to slosh out. "Shit, shit! What is this guy doing?" He looked angrily over at Donovan, "That's your man Brill, isn't it?"

Stan shrugged. "Sounds like him, but I don't know what he'd be doing in there..."

"If _he's_ in there, it means Monahan can't be far behind... shit, shit, SHIT!"

* * *

"Who are you?" Brill stared at Sanderson, as if dumbfounded, and the man yelled, "You'd better tell me who the hell you are, or I'll blow your head off."

"I'm Brill, one of the morgue assistants." Brill exchanged a look with Quincy and said, "Dr. Quincy, what the hell's going on? Who is this guy?"

"I didn't see you in here earlier," Sanderson interjected.

"I've been in the basement all day, logging in bodies, that's...that's what I do."

"Why are you up here now?"

"Brill logs in bodies and then brings them up to this floor to the assigned medical examiners," Quincy interjected.

"That's all I'm doin' mister," Brill said nervously, "I was just bringin' a body up for Dr. Quincy. I don't know nothin' about what's goin' on here..."

"So you're saying you're not a cop trying to sneak another cop in here, but you actually have a stiff on that gurney?"

"Yeah," Brill answered, "he's dead all right."

Sanderson pulled the sheet away from the face of the cadaver, and Quincy had to stifle a gasp as his gaze settled on the open and unseeing eyes of Frank Monahan.


	10. Chapter 10

Quincy's terror filled eyes darted to Brill's, but he couldn't read what was in the chocolate brown ones holding him. Monahan's lifeless blues stared up at the ceiling, and Quincy felt his stomach flop up and down. Sanderson checked Monahan for a pulse, but found none; he tested for respiration, but again, there was nothing; and then he picked up a scalpel from the tray, and Quincy grabbed his wrist.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?"

"What are you worried about? If he's really dead, doctor, he won't feel anything..."

"I have to autopsy this body, I can't let you contaminate it."

The gun in Sanderson's other hand leveled on Quincy's midsection. "Let go of me, Quincy. If this man is dead, then I'll let this imbecile Brill go; but if he's not, I'm gonna kill him and this man Brill."

Quincy held onto his wrist, and played a hopeful hunch. "You don't need to slice him open; if you do, the smell in here will be unbearable. A simple prick with an instrument that sharp will tell you if he's alive or not." The two men stared at each other. "Look, you're so worried that there's justice for your brother; what about dignity and compassion for this man's family?"

Sanderson pulled his arm away and cut into Monahan's forearm, but the lieutenant didn't move a muscle. Sanderson looked up at Brill. "He's dead all right."

"Told you," Brill said, eyeing Quincy, and quietly indicating that the coroner needed to move in closer.

Quincy shoved Sanderson out of the way, and removing the scalpel from his hand, he tossed it onto the tray. The medical examiner gently bent over Monahan, quietly inspecting him for himself, and he felt panic beginning to rise when he couldn't find any signs of life. He looked up into Brill's dark eyes and felt his own begin to tear at the irrefutable fact that Monahan was dead.

Brill kept his voice even, matter-of-fact, "I found an odd puncture wound in the victim's left palm--"

"--That's enough," Sanderson broke in, "You, Brill, get out."

Quincy watched in saddened silence as Brill walked out the door, not daring to look back. Feeling as if his heart had been ripped from his chest, Quincy stared into Monahan's still face before gently covering his unseeing blue eyes with a sheet. But remembering Brill's words, Quincy softly pulled the lieutenant's left hand from under the cover and he looked at it, noting the large needle mark in Frank's palm. He frowned slightly but held up the sheet to replace his friend's hand, and when he did, caught sight of the loaded syringe that had been lying under Monahan's arm. Swallowing hard, the medical examiner laid Monahan's arm back over the syringe and covered him with the sheet. His mind began to fly through the possibilities, and he wondered how long it would be before an opportunity to inject Monahan with the syringe might present itself.

* * *

Herbst's men crawled as quickly as they could back through the corridor and into safety in the impromptu command center within the morgue. Sgt. Tanner made his way quickly to the table where Herbst and Wilson stood.

"What the hell happened?" Herbst demanded.

Tanner shrugged. "This guy in scrubs showed up in the corridor wheeling a gurney, he called out to Dr. Quincy before we had a chance to stop him."

"How in the hell did he get in there in the first place?"

"Near as I could tell, Captain, he got off the elevator down the hall."

"And we have to assume that the 'body' on the gurney is Monahan," Wilson spat. "Donovan!"

"There's no need to bellow, Hal," Donovan answered, "I'm right behind you."

"What the hell do your men think they're doing?"

Donovan cringed inwardly. "I...well Hal, I don't know."

Brill entered the room then, still dressed in scrubs. "Brill," Donovan yelled, "Get over here!"

Brill approached the men, his eternally calm demeanor well affixed. "Yes Captain?"

"Don't you 'yes captain' me," Donovan growled. "Are we correct in assuming that Frank Monahan is now in the room with Quincy and Asten?"

"Yes sir," Brill answered simply.

"Great," bellowed Wilson, "just great...I'll have your badges for this."

"Brill," Donovan said, "What were you thinking?"

"I'm sorry, Captain." Brill leaned in closely so that only Donovan could hear, "The lieutenant felt that Wilson was going to get Quincy and Asten killed by rushing Sanderson."

"So the two of you launched your own offensive?"

Brill stared hard into Donovan's eyes. "If it was you in there, Captain, would you have wanted us to stand by and do nothing?"

Donovan stared hard into Brill's eyes. "You'd better fill us in on what Monahan intends to do since it sounds like he's currently in no condition to do anything..."

"Let's get Sam Fujiyama over here to explain how it's gonna come down, Captain."

"I might have known the inscrutable lab assistant was involved in this." Donovan glared at the sergeant. "Get him over here, Brill."

"Yes sir."

Brill quickly moved away, and Wilson leaned in toward Donovan's ear. "I'm going to have Monahan's badge for this, Donovan, make no mistake. His career is over, and if you don't do everything in your power to help me salvage this mess, I'll make sure you go down with him."

Donovan turned to meet the man's eyes. "As long as the hostages come out alive, neither one of us is gonna care; but then, you've never understood that concept, Hal, which is why you have the highest damaged collateral stats in the department."

* * *

Quincy silently observed as Sanderson nervously fiddled with the vials of volatile chemicals and he felt his mouth go dry. He swallowed trying to relieve the cotton-like feel of his tongue against the enamel of his teeth. The moan from the autopsy table caught his attention. He leaned over Asten, placing a soft hand against the large artery in the man's neck.

"Relax, Bob, you're doing okay," his soft baritone soothed. The thump against Quincy's fingers reassured him that his boss was stable, but his labored breathing, even with the help of the oxygen reminded the coroner that Asten needed cardiac attention from a specialist, and he needed it soon. Asten groaned in pain as his eyes fluttered open. Quincy laid a soft hand on the deputy medical examiner's forehead. "Take it easy, buddy."

"Quincy," Asten whispered, his eyes flooding with tears, "the pain...it hurts so badly..."

The coroner brushed his hand over his friend's brow, swallowing hard to shove down the emotion that was tightening his throat. "It's gonna be okay, buddy, I promise."

Asten grabbed his chest in agony. "Please Quincy, I can't take anymore..."

His eyes flooding with fear, Quincy reached for a syringe and an ampule on the crash cart. He loaded the syringe, lifted the blanket covering Asten, tugged the man's pants down below his pelvis, and injected the morphine into the thick muscle of the Asten's hip. He tossed the used syringe into a nearby trash can, rubbing the area where he injected the pain killer. After a moment, he pulled Asten's pants back up and covered him with the blanket. Sitting on the stool next to the table, Quincy soothingly rubbed Asten's chest.

"Just keep breathing, buddy, the morphine'll kick in soon, and you won't hurt so much."

Asten nodded, letting out a small breath of air from beneath the oxygen mask. Another long minute ticked by before Quincy could see the relief begin to relax his friend's face and finally, the anguish in his dark eyes began to dissipate.

"Better?" Quincy asked, still rubbing a warm hand along Asten's breastbone.

"A little," Bob breathed heavily.

Quincy stood then and slid his hands under the deputy medical examiner's upper back, gently massaging his fingers into the tight muscles of Asten's shoulders. "I want you to breathe easy and relax; I'll have you out of here before you know it." Asten moaned as Quincy's strong hands relaxed him toward sleep. "Close your eyes, buddy. Try and rest for awhile."

Sanderson glanced over at Quincy, and nodded at Asten. "He looks a lot worse."

Quincy looked up, a glower knitting his brows. "Thanks to you. He needs help."

"Then give it to him, _doctor_."

Quincy gently slid his hands out from under Asten's shoulders and stalked angrily toward Sanderson. "We've been through this. I'm not a cardiac specialist, and he needs surgery. If you don't let him out of here and very soon, he isn't gonna make it."

"Get me Kittridge, and I'll let him go."

"The negotiator told you...he's in surgery. Face it, Sanderson, you're not going to get him here. You'll have to settle for taking it out on me, and me alone."

Sanderson smiled, walked back toward the counter and picked up the two vials of chemicals. "No I don't, Quincy."

He started toward the door, and Quincy demanded, "Where are you going with those vials?"

Sanderson looked at Quincy, and smiled. "Just taking a little look out in the main lab. Relax, Dr. Quincy, I won't unleash these chemicals without you; I wouldn't want you to miss the excitement."

"Yeah, thanks for thinking of me."

Smiling, Sanderson walked out into the main lab, and Quincy quickly pulled down the sheet covering Monahan, the lieutenant's unseeing blue eyes sending a shiver down the coroner's spine. He reached under the Irishman's arm and yanked out the hidden syringe. He stared at the liquid and hoped he was doing the right thing. Holding up Monahan's left palm, Quincy injected the liquid into the previous needle mark. He gently massaged Frank's hand circulating the mysterious injection, and he waited...

* * *

The irritation in Wilson's voice was evident, "So this...teto...deto..."

"Tetrodotoxin," Sam finished. "It's the toxin found in puffer fish. A small amount of it simply makes your nerve endings tingle, not an entirely unpleasant sensation; too much of it, and you're dead."

"And Monahan?" Donovan asked tensely.

Sam turned to face the captain. "I injected him with enough to render his system inactive, but not enough to kill him."

"How can you be sure?"

"I calculated the amount of toxin based on the deadly amount, Monahan's weight, and an approximation amount that I believe will simulate death."

"An approximation?" Stan ran a hand over his head. "What if you're wrong?"

"The lieutenant insisted," Brill added, "Sam just did as he asked."

"And you put the antidote with him?" Wilson asked.

"Yes," Brill said, "All Quincy has to do is inject him with it, and Monahan should come around."

"Should, maybe...approximate..." Wilson shook his head. "You're all a bunch of amateurs. The truth is you might have killed Monahan with the amount you gave him, or the antidote could do it. You just don't know."

"It was a chance we had to take," Brill snarled. "The way you were headed, Asten and Quincy would already be dead, and Monahan wasn't willing to lose another friend to your hardass tactics."

Donovan put a gentle hand on Brill's forearm. "Easy, Brill." He looked at Wilson. "We need to give Monahan a chance. He's taken a huge risk, the least we can do is give him a chance."

"I don't like it," Wilson fumed. "I don't like this at all..."

* * *

Quincy allowed his hands to move up Monahan's arm, gently rubbing the muscles, hoping whatever he injected him with would bring him around, but after five minutes, there was no indication that Monahan would awaken. His body was still cold, his eyes still unseeing, and there was no sign of respiration. Quincy checked the wound Sanderson had cut in Monahan's forearm, and while it was a deep cut, there was no coagulation of blood, sending Quincy's heart into his shoes.

"Come on, Frank, you've got to wake up, and you've gotta do it before that nut comes back in here or we're all as good as dead. Come on..."


	11. Chapter 11

Monahan groaned, and Quincy quickly clamped down on his mouth to keep Sanderson from hearing him. "Shhh, Monahan, we don't want to alert this nut that you're awake."

Frank looked into the relieved face of Quincy. "Sorry Quincy, to pull this on you, but Sam and I couldn't come up with anything else."

"It's fine, I'm just glad you're still breathing. What do we do now?"

"In about five minutes, I'll need you to distract him away from the chemicals."

"And then?"

"You don't want to know, Quincy."

"You're gonna kill him? Monahan, no!"

"Do you wanna save Asten and everyone else in this building? We don't got a choice anymore, Quincy. None at all."

Quincy hated it. He hated the very idea of it. But he knew Asten wasn't going to last much longer.

"I'll distract him by telling him Asten's dying…" Quincy looked down. "It won't be too far from the truth." He glanced at Monahan. "Are you sure you can't just wound him?"

"Quincy, I don't think we can take a chance…" He pat Quincy on the shoulder. "I'm sorry, I know you don't like it. I'm just not willing to take any more risks."

Quincy looked away then back at Monahan. "Good luck, Frank."

"Yeah, you too, Quince…"

Quincy headed back into the room with Asten while Monahan silently watched Sanderson pacing near the chemicals. Quincy gently shook Asten's shoulder.

"Bob, hey Bob…"

Asten groaned. "What?"

"Sorry to wake you, but all hell's about to break loose and I want you to stay calm, okay?"

"What are you talking about?"

"Monahan is in the other room on a gurney. Sanderson thinks he's dead."

"But he's not?"

"He's very much alive, and he's about to get us out of here."

"How?"

"Doesn't matter. I just want you to stay calm and play along with me when I call Sanderson over here. I'm gonna tell him you're having another heart attack, so I need you to play it up."

"That shouldn't be too hard," Asten whispered. "Then what?"

"Monahan is gonna take care of Sanderson."

"Take care of him? How?"

"Asten, let it go. Just—"

"—You mean he's going to kill him, don't you? Quincy…"

"Sorry Bob, no other way."

"I can't believe you'd condone something like that, Quincy."

Quincy looked down. "I don't."

"Well then, how could you go along with this?"

"I…well, I…"

Then it dawned on him. "You're not doing this for my sake, are you?"

Quincy remained silent, and glanced at the time. "Show time, Asten, get ready." He spoke loudly, "Sanderson! Sanderson! Help me! Asten's having a heart attack!"

Quincy glared at Asten who glared back but then grabbed his chest and began moaning. Sanderson left the chemicals and came into the room.

"Here," Quincy said, "hold this O2 mask to his face."

"This isn't my problem, Quincy, I ain't no nursemaid."

"But he's gonna die, don't you understand? I need your help! He needs your help!"

"I don't care, Quincy. Do you hear me, I don't care! Nobody cared about my brother…"

"And you son," Monahan's voice called from the next room, "do you care about your own life?"

Sanderson turned, pointing his gun in Monahan's direction, but Frank didn't wait, he squeezed the trigger. Sanderson dropped like a stone to the floor.

"Jesus!" Quincy exclaimed.

The doctor dropped to the floor and checked the man's vitals, but there was nothing. "Damn," Quincy muttered.

Monahan moved toward him. "Would you rather it had been you, Quincy? Or me or Atsten?"

"I would not," Quincy said, but bitterness colored his tone. He turned his attention back to Asten, checking his pulse. "Thready," he commented. "Monahan, get the paramedics, our friend here needs surgery."

* * *

Quincy watched as the paramedics wheeled Asten out. Brill and Wilson came in, followed by Sam.

Monahan looked at Wilson. "Next time, let us handle it. Come on, Brill… Quincy, you coming?"

"Not just yet, Frank."

Wilson glared at Quincy. "You managed to get your way, doctor."

"Not really," Quincy said, kneeling by Sanderson. "Somebody still died, and I've gotta take care of him." He looked at Sam. "Come on, Sam, help me with him."

"You bet, Quince…"

Wilson shook his head as the two coroners gently lifted Sanderson onto a table, preparing to perform an autopsy on him, despite the obvious mode of death.

"Why not leave this to someone else?" Wilson asked.

Quincy glared at him. "I don't expect you to understand this, but everyone deserves dignity in death. Now get out of my lab."

Wilson turned and left and only then did Sam ask what he'd wanted to ask since arriving in the room.

"Is Asten going to be okay?"

"Yeah, Sam, it was close for awhile, but he's pretty tough. As soon as we finish with Sanderson, we'll head over to the hospital and make sure of it. Deal?"

"Deal, Quince. I'm glad you're okay too."

"Yeah. I just wish it'd been different for Sanderson…"

"He got himself into it, Quince, don't forget that."

"I know. But would any of us have been okay after losing a brother we loved dearly?"

Sam looked at Quincy and could hear the undercurrents of how the man had been terrified that he would lose Monahan or Asten.

"No Quince. I don't suppose that we would."

###


End file.
